


Walking the Wire

by writteninblood



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Actor Edward Nygma, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Anxiety, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Domestic Fluff, Drug Addiction, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Historical References, Implied Sexual Content, Letters, M/M, Mayor Oswald Cobblepot, Romance, Slurs, Substance Abuse, Unintentional overdose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-05-14 11:32:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14768774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writteninblood/pseuds/writteninblood
Summary: Mayor Cobblepot is famous for being cold, emotionless and never smiling. Enter over eager Edward Nygma, who has trouble taking no for an answer.





	1. Oh, I'll take your hand when thunder roars

Oswald takes his seat in the royal box at the theatre, aware of all the eyes that greedily take the opportunity to watch him while he’s not looking. He won’t give them the gratification of looking back. It’s beneath him.

He absently opens the programme that was given to him by his assistant and flicks through it. _Achilles and Patroclus_. He hopes this performance will be marginally less dull than all the other opening nights he has had to go to. It really is a waste of his time, when he has so many other more important things he could be doing. But as mayor, it’s his duty to be seen at events of this type. He _loathes_ it. 

Oswald glances down at the row beside him, and ensures that his face shows nothing. All the other seats in the box are empty because Oswald will never sit with anyone, unless absolutely necessary. He prefers to be alone. 

The lights dim and the curtains open, and many of the attendees lean forward or sit up straighter, the electric buzz of anticipation in the air filling them with excitement. Oswald does not move an inch and stares absently through the darkness at the programme still in his lap. 

Against his own better judgement, he ends up becoming absorbed in the story, even though he has read Homer’s _Iliad_ and knows how the love story between Achilles and Patroclus ends. He is held rapt when Patroclus tearfully begs Achilles to go to war and stop the needless slaughter of the Greeks; the actor portraying Patroclus is simply superb. Subconsciously he finds himself leaning forward in his seat as the play draws to its conclusion, Achilles holding the lifeless Patroclus in his arms, wailing in his grief. Oswald is horrified to feel a tear slip down his cheek and he hurriedly wipes it away with his pocket square, glancing around himself to see if anyone noticed. Thankfully, everyone else is as engrossed in the play as he is.

It’s a struggle to contain his emotions through the final sequence of Achilles’ suicidal rampage, and his happiness when someone is finally able to kill him. When the play finally comes to an end, he hurriedly puts his pocket square back in his jacket. 

The audience is almost immediately on its feet for a standing ovation. Oswald has never gotten up to applaud, for any show he has ever been to see. He doesn’t care if it’s perceived as rude. To him it’s a personal choice, and thus far no production or actor has been good enough to get him on his feet.

He stands up and applauds. He can see photographer’s flashes going off as it’s noticed that he’s joining the ovation, and he knows this image will grace every single one of the morning newspapers, rather than a still from the play or a photograph of the cast. It’s the strongest endorsement the play will get in Gotham city, more powerful than the positive review of any critic. As he stands there, people turn to look at him, disbelieving and incredulous. Even the cast, doing their joint bow on stage, look up at him. Perhaps they expect a smile. Perhaps they think Oswald Cobblepot’s heart has finally been thawed.

He turns and leaves.

  


* * *

  


He’s being bored senseless by some high ranking academic in the bar when his assistant, Tarquin, comes to him and speaks quietly in his ear.

“It’s time for you to meet the cast, sir.”

Oswald nods, puts down his champagne on a nearby table and follows his assistant. 

They are waiting in a line for him in the foyer. Photographers are loitering close by, looking bored as ever. Oswald never gives them anything interesting to photograph—always stoic and predictable. 

He always hates this part of the evening. He feels they’re expecting him to spout meaningless words, thanking them for opening their wonderful show in Gotham, telling them what a fantastic performance they gave. Oswald never says anything. He simply shakes each of their hands as each actor is introduced to him and nods in acknowledgement. The whole parade is ridiculous. He’d much rather be at home by the fire drinking whiskey.

He moves as fast along the line as he can without being rude. All the faces are meaningless blurs he’ll probably never see again. 

“…This is Edward Nygma, he played the role of—”

“Patroclus.” 

Everyone goes quiet, watching with fascination. Oswald _never_ speaks to actors. He stares up at the man, who smiles back down at him, eyes bright with the exhilaration of performance. There are still traces of kohl around them, and Oswald catalogues every physical aspect of Edward’s face. He is wearing glasses now, which suit him very much. His eyebrows are thick and expressive and somehow add to his general warmth. He even has a chin dimple, which of course is completely ridiculous. Some people were just born to be admired.

He dimly realises he’s still holding Edward’s hand and lets go slowly, making look as though it was intentional. 

“Did you like the play?” Edward daringly asks. The actors _never_ speak to him either, having always been instructed beforehand not to do so. Tarquin looks at Edward with uncontained fury in his eyes. And of course, there’s fear there too. Oswald isn’t known for being sympathetic when his staff make mistakes. There are no second chances.

“I did.” Oswald responds. “You were magnificent.”

Edward’s smile turns into a big toothy grin, and it looks like he’s about to say more, but his assistant ushers him along the line. Oswald doesn’t tear his eyes away from Edward until he physically has to. As he makes his way through the rest of the line, he has to restrain himself from looking back at Edward. When he finally reaches the end, his assistant says the car is ready outside for them to leave. Oswald starts following him to the exit, but can’t resist glancing over his shoulder one more time. 

He is strangely gratified to see, that even though everyone else has dispersed into smaller groups to mingle, Edward is still watching him.

If he were a younger man, still hopeful of his own future happiness, he would smile. 

But he is not. He turns away, and goes through the doors. He doesn’t feel anything.

  


* * *

  


Oswald asks Tarquin about Edward Nygma and his career. Tarquin is more aware of pop culture than Oswald, who has no time for such trivial things. He learns that he has made appearances in a few films in supporting roles, but his career is only really just starting to gain momentum. He asks Tarquin to acquire all the films for him.

  


* * *

  


He watches them, and the roles really are quite minor, but he finds himself fixated on Edward nonetheless, his grace and beauty. If Oswald were not such a public figure, he would go to see the play again, but he can’t do so without being noticed. He cannot conjure up an excuse to see him again, and he probably shouldn’t anyway. Oswald is not stupid enough to fall for a handsome face. The whole thing is below his notice.

  


* * *

  


Four days after the play, Oswald receives two tickets for the next Saturday night performance. There’s no note or explanation of any kind, but it’s obvious who sent them. There was only one memorable interaction that night. He wonders at the fact Edward sent two tickets. It’s popular knowledge that Oswald keeps no company, not even friends. 

There is only one person he would ever have taken. He wishes his mother were still alive. She would have been delighted with the spectacle of it all, getting to be on the arm of her powerful and successful son. He shuts his eyes against the pain that always accompanies thoughts of her. It has been nearly fifteen years, but his grief still follows him around like a shadow. 

He puts the tickets back in their envelope and drops them into one of the desk drawers. That’s that.

  


* * *

  


It’s Saturday and he’s just finishing up for the day at City Hall. He had intended to work late, running into the time the play is happening, so he wouldn’t have to think about it, but there is simply no more he can do tonight. He looks at his watch, and the play is going to begin in five minutes. Most of the staff have already left, not that there were that many to begin with, being Saturday. He can see the grand building of the theatre in question from his office, and as he stands there at the window staring at it, he feels an odd rush of _something_ in his chest. If he wasn’t a wiser man, he’d say it was excitement. Hands in the pockets of his trousers, he clucks his tongue and absently kicks the toe of his shoe against the wall, waiting for the strange feeling to pass.

In a moment of spontaneity that is absolutely _not_ him, he grabs the tickets from the drawer and calls shouts to Tarquin in his neighbouring office. He comes running. 

“I’m going to the theatre, I’ll need a car immediately.”

Tarquin looks for a second like he thinks Oswald has lost his wits. He probably has. 

“Of course sir.”

  


* * *

  


He hurries inside, aware that he is late. He finds the nearest usher and shows them one of his tickets.

“I’m afraid the performance has already started sir, I can’t let you inside.”

He fixes her with as much malice as he can manage as he hisses, “I am the _mayor_. If you want to keep your job you _will_ let me in.”

The girl looks suitably terrified and says in a small voice, “this way, sir.”

She turns on a small torch once they get in the auditorium, and leads him along the darkness of the rows on the ground floor—Oswald belatedly realises that they’re not box tickets, of _course_ they’re not. He is going to be sitting where the _ordinary_ people sit. He is regretting this last-minute decision more and more by the second. 

“Here we are sir. Please enjoy the performance.” She whispers, gesturing to his seat, before hurrying off. 

He takes the seat on the end of the row, rather than the one next to someone else. The woman on the other side of the empty seat stares at him.

“Good evening,” Oswald whispers, meeting her gaze with a stiff but polite nod. She simply gapes at him. She probably didn’t think she would end up sitting one seat away from the Mayor of Gotham tonight.

When Oswald looks up, he realises he’s much closer to the stage now. He wonders if that’s what Edward intended. The performance is so much more powerful and immediate from this viewpoint. How will he contain his emotions at the end? Especially sitting here among the common people. He should leave now, but he can’t persuade his legs to move. 

Seeing the death scenes from this angle is infinitely worse, as he had imagined, and it’s a struggle to keep the floodgates closed. Their love is so _profound_ , and Oswald finds himself wondering how it feels to experience love like that. He promptly shuts that dangerous line of thought down. 

He does of course shed a few tears, unable to stop them. The woman next to him hands him a tissue from the packet she’s holding in her hand. Her kindness somehow makes him cry even more, and he takes the tissue gratefully. He manages to stop and completely dry his face by the time they get to the curtain call. He stands up with everyone else again for the ovation. 

Edward’s eyes find his, and he grins widely down at him. Oswald can’t smile—he’s long since forgotten how. He simply nods and turns to leave, while the audience is distracted by the deafening applause. 

It’s a relief when he’s surrounded by the comforting darkness and silence of the car.

  


* * *

  


The same thing happens again the week after. He receives another two tickets to the play, the following Saturday night. He doesn’t even try to pretend that he won’t go this time. The show only has another two weeks to run, and he won’t waste the chance to see it. This time he won’t be late.

  


* * *

  


The roar of the crowd, the grand applause, these are the things Edward lives for. He finds the Mayor’s eyes quickly in the stall seats, still rather amazed that the man would condescend to sit there. He’s also surprised the Mayor keeps accepting his invitations to see the play. He’d gotten the impression the first time he’d seen him that he’d much rather be anywhere else, despite his kind words to him. _Only_ him. He said nothing to anyone else. Edward thinks about that fact too much. 

He turns to leave quickly, as he did the last time. Busy man, Edward supposes. 

When the cast finally leaves the stage, he makes his way to his dressing room, still buzzing. 

As soon as he opens the door, he sees it. The enormous bouquet of lilies sitting on his dresser, an envelope leaning against the bottom of the vase. His heart is fluttering wildly as he opens it. 

_Mr. Nygma,_

_Thank you for the tickets to see your splendid play._

_I wish you every success in your future endeavours. I am sure you will be sensational, and I am pleased to have seen you perform at this juncture in what I’m sure will be a remarkable career._

_Yours truly,  
O. C. Cobblepot_

It’s a cold letter, on official office of mayor stationary no less. Edward can read between the lines—it’s a goodbye, even though they never really began. The Mayor won’t accept any more tickets, he won’t attend the show again. He’s a cold man, famous for never smiling. When he wants people out of his life, they go. Edward wonders if he did something to disturb him, to provoke this gesture of finality.

He touches the petals of the flowers sadly. He’d been so excited when he’d seen them. As a stage actor he is of course accustomed to accepting flowers, but he’s never gotten them for more personal reasons. He had really hoped this bouquet would be the first. 

But his eyes had lingered on him, hadn’t they? And he’d returned, not once, but twice, to see his play. Mayor Cobblepot never does anything he doesn’t want to do. 

Edward is from Gotham, and he knows all about the Mayor, but had never seen him up close until opening night. His palpable presence was quite extraordinary, almost as though he was a member of royalty. The reverence with which people treat him is quite significant, although that might be attributed to his fearsome reputation. He is an impressive man, so elegant, with his powerful eyebrows, his striking eyes, and the dignified wisps of grey in his hair. Edward hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him, and their encounter, since. 

Edward doesn’t attend the after party that night. He takes the flowers home with him and puts them in a place of prominence on his coffee table. But he ends up moving them when he discovers the bouquet is so large it blocks the TV. They go on his kitchen dining table instead, where he stares at it from the living room, filled with a strange melancholy. 

The Mayor clearly intends their acquaintance to stop, with his letter. Edward imagines he probably does this to anyone who tries to get close to him. He’d known that the Mayor wouldn’t bring anyone with him to the theatre, Edward only sent two tickets because he thought sending one would be insulting and hurtful. He supposes it was either way, if he had no one to give the second ticket to. 

The Mayor probably expects him to give up. He probably _should_ give up. He only met the man once, and he didn’t even smile. The problem is, Edward wants to be the one to _make_ him smile. He _must_ be lonely too, all that power and success and no one to share it with? He’s so closed off, so set in his ways, and Edward’s friends would tell him to leave well enough alone, that it’s not worth it. But something in Edward’s gut tells him the opposite. 

He’s not wanting for attention, men and women often show an interest in him, and Edward craves human interaction. There aren’t many nights he spends alone. That is, until he met the Mayor. He can no longer even entertain the thought of anyone else. 

Edward resolves not to give up. He knows it will difficult, what with the Mayor already being a hard man to access, and his determination to remain alone and untouchable. But Edward always did like a challenge.

  


* * *

  


Edward finds his next opportunity in the closing night party. He manages to get the Mayor invited, and surely he won’t reject an invitation from the whole production? 

He changes after the final performance hurriedly, putting on the suit he has put by especially for tonight. He wants to look his absolute best. He checks his face one last time in the mirror and heads to the bar where the party is taking place, the adrenaline of the performance still running through his veins.

  


* * *

  


Oswald takes a glass of champagne and surveys the room. More of the actors are filtering in, making it more lively. This party definitely needs that, what with most of the attendees being stuffy old suits. Oswald knows he’s not exactly the life and soul of the party, but he does like to be entertained. Tarquin’s lurking nearby is incredibly irritating, but he does serve as a useful out if whoever he’s talking to gets too boring. 

He’s more surprised than anyone that he is there. He sent the flowers to end communication between himself and Edward. He does realise that saying nothing at all would also have worked, and communicated his ‘disinterest’ more effectively. But something about the situation, and the man in question, made him _not_ want to be cold for once. He spent quite some time deliberating on what to send, before finally settling on lilies. He thought Edward worthy of his mother’s favourite. 

At that moment, he notices the principal of Gotham University making a beeline for him. He is mentally readying his excuse about Tarquin needing to urgently talk to him, when someone else in a crisp white suit gets to him first. When Oswald looks up at him, he is momentarily flustered—Oswald had managed to forget just how handsome Edward was. He gently places his hands on Oswald’s arms and guides him away from the approaching man. 

Oswald looks down at Edward’s hands and opens his mouth, shocked, at being touched. _No one_ ever touches him. He is too repulsive, too _abhorrent_ to be touched. 

Sensing his misstep, Edward says, “sorry.” He does look a little sheepish at taking such a liberty, though it’s clear he doesn’t fully understand Oswald’s discomfort. 

“It’s all right.” Oswald says, perfunctorily. It’s not.

“I’m really glad you could come tonight.” Edward says. “I wanted to thank you for the beautiful flowers. It was a nice surprise when I got back to my dressing room.”

“You’re welcome.” Oswald has mastered the art of only saying what he needs to. He sees Edward’s expression flicker, as he realises this probably isn’t worth his time. Oswald’s icy exterior is impenetrable.

“I wanted to ask you if you would let me take you out to dinner? Perhaps some time next week if you have any free evenings?”

“No, thank you.” Oswald finishes his champagne and catches Tarquin’s eye. He raises his eyebrows as if to say, “do you need rescuing?” But Oswald minutely shakes his head, though the flight instinct is strong.

Edward looks between the two of them in confusion, before renewing his efforts. “Is that a no you have no free evenings, or no you don’t want to come to dinner?”

“Both,” Oswald says easily. A waiter with a tray of champagne passes them and Edward grabs two, handing one to Oswald, who nods in thanks.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Edward continues, taking a sip of the champagne. Oswald watches his Adam’s apple bob. “I’m leaving next weekend to shoot a new project in California. We don’t even have to see each other again.”

Oswald says nothing as he considers, savouring the sweet taste of the champagne, and the distant warm buzz it gives him. He has always liked the comforting numbing blanket of alcohol.

“How old are you, Mr. Nygma?” The question fills Edward’s face with eagerness.

“Ed, please. I’m twenty-eight.” Edward just seems to be glad that Oswald is still talking to him. 

“Just as I thought. Surely you don’t want to be seen with an old man like me.”

“You’re not old. You can’t be more than forty.”

Oswald smirks inwardly. 

“Forty-two.”

“That’s not old at all!” Edward insists. “And anyway, age doesn’t matter. It never even crossed my mind.”

Oswald wants to believe him, except he _feels_ like an old man. He has grey flecks in his hair, and his stupid leg makes him look old and decrepit. He also certainly has the detached, grumpy manner of one of the elderly. He is not, and has never been a man that people desire. Even with all his power and wealth, he is not an attractive prospect. He has seen it written that he would be the most eligible bachelor in Gotham if he wasn’t so hideous.

“Just one dinner.” Edward says, eyes pleading. “And if you choose, I will never contact you again after.”

Oswald wonders why it is that Edward is so determined. He would usually assume he was after money, but after this run of shows, and given his rising popularity, he will have plenty of his own. There is no logical explanation for Edward’s wanting to have dinner with him, other than simply wanting to spend time with him.

“One dinner. I choose where and when.”

Edward’s eyes light up. Oswald can tell he thought he was fighting a losing battle. 

“Of course, anything you like.” Edward says excitedly. 

His happiness is making something tug in his chest, and he nods at Tarquin in a mild state of panic. The man is at his side in an instant. 

“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Nygma—”

“Ed—”

“My office will be in touch.” And with that he leaves, feeling Edward’s eyes on him all the way out of the room.

  


* * *

  


Oswald’s stomach is in knots, and he’s unsure how he is going to eat anything at this dinner. Especially when he sees Edward waiting for him. He is wearing a navy blue and white suit and looks stunning as ever. He has entered the restaurant through the back entrance, and reserved a table right at the back, far away from prying eyes and cameras. Edward’s eyes are on the front entrance, clearly expecting him to arrive like a normal person. It’s almost endearing, the way he perks up every time the door opens. 

“Good evening, Mr. Nygma.” Oswald says, and has the satisfaction of seeing Edward almost fall out of his seat at Oswald’s sudden appearance behind him. “Sorry to startle you.”

“ _Ed_. And don’t worry about it.” He actually gets up and pulls out Oswald’s chair for him, before the waiter can do it. Chagrined, he hands them menus and says he’ll be back in a few moments to take their drink orders. 

“You look wonderful,” Edward says over the top of his menu, his eyes raking appreciatively over Oswald’s suit. Normally he wears grey and pin stripes with occasional dashes of colour, but tonight he has been bold and chosen a purple suit with light blue details. He has even applied a little makeup, though not enough for anyone to really notice. No one ever does. He’s glad his own menu hides his blush. 

They decide to share a bottle of wine, and Edward asks him what dishes he recommends as he has never been to this particular restaurant before. Oswald is gratified when he orders everything he recommends. 

“So,” Oswald begins, having planned several questions to ask in his head prior to the evening. “How did you get into acting?”

Edward looks delighted at his interest. “Well, it was always either acting, or forensic science. And I thought acting would be more fun so…”

“Those are two very different career paths.”

“I did try for a job at the GCPD, when my auditions weren’t going so well. But I was offered an acting job before I heard back from the GCPD, and I decided to take it. It turned out that the GCPD had rejected my application anyway.”

“You wouldn’t want to work for them anyway,” Oswald says, wrinkling his nose with disgust. “The entire police force are no better than apes.”

Edward chuckles. “Good to know.” 

Things are so easy between them that Oswald feels his nerves dissipating and his hunger returning. He is relieved that he will be able to eat this meal without struggling. 

“What’s it like being mayor?” 

_Lonely_. 

“It used to be interesting. Challenging. Now it just seems like an endless parade of opening nights and ceremonies, meetings with people so dull I don’t know how they live with themselves, and paperwork.”

Oswald is surprised that he gave such an honest answer. Edward looks sympathetic. 

“Is there something else you’d rather be doing?”

“No—I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it. What else is there? I have the most powerful position in the city. Where do you go from there?”

“But if it’s no longer fulfilling for you, perhaps you need to take a break, and try something else?”

“This is my life.” Oswald says in a tone that leaves no room for disagreement. “The people may not like me, but they like the fact that I get the job done. That’s why I keep getting re-elected, because I make things happen.”

Edward nods, and doesn’t pursue the topic, clearly knowing when to back down. They both eye the cutlery on the table in silence. It’s awkward, for the first time that evening. Oswald clears his throat.

“So, what’s your new project in California?”

Edward immediately perks up. “It’s about the assassination of Bobby Kennedy. It follows his final campaign in California leading up to the shooting at the Ambassador Hotel.”

“And you play…” Though he supposes it’s obvious.

“Bobby.” He grins.

“That’s impressive.”

“It’s a little intimidating. I always admired him. He wore his heart on his sleeve and made himself accessible to everyone. He was a man of the people.”

 _Unlike me_. Edward seems to realise the unintended implication and an apologetic expression starts to form. Oswald cuts in before he can start trying to backtrack. 

“I always admired JFK more. He didn’t waste time on sentiment and got the job done. He had no weaknesses.” 

Edward frowns. “What about his constant philandering?” 

“Less than ideal, I grant you that. Emotional attachment of any kind only gets in the way of the job.”

The first course is placed in front of them, but neither of them pay any attention to the waiter. Edward looks disturbed by Oswald’s words.

“You really believe that.”

“Yes, I do,” Oswald says with conviction.

They eat the first course in silence. When the plates are taken away, Edward rests his hands on the table. 

He fidgets, looking as though he is uncertain whether to say something. Eventually he takes a deep breath and says it.

“Are you happy?”

Oswald debates giving a sarcastic response, such as “ecstatic”, or lying outright and saying yes. But he suspects Edward would see right through it. For a moment he takes down all the barriers he keeps around himself when he’s outside the mansion, and he allows the great depths of his sadness to show. There is so much of it, it’s like being at the bottom of a well he can’t climb out of. 

“No.”

Edward seems a little overwhelmed by what he sees, but then he looks sad too, although hopeful, as he holds out a hand across the table. Oswald feels impossibly _more_ wretched for bringing Edward down with him. This is one of the many reasons he keeps to himself.

“I want to make you happy.” He doesn’t retract his hand, even though Oswald makes no move to hold it. “Or even just be there for you. If you would let me. You don’t have to be alone.”

Oswald says nothing, just stares down at the table as he mentally puts the walls back up. In the corner of his eye he sees Edward slowly put his hand back in his lap. 

They eat the main course mostly in silence too, with Edward making the occasional comment about how good it is, and thanking Oswald for the recommendation. Oswald only nods in acknowledgement. He doesn’t know what else to say.

When the second course plates are cleared, Oswald looks across the table at Edward. He didn’t really make any eye contact with him over the entirety of the second course. Edward probably wishes he’d never pushed so hard for this dinner. 

When Edward meets his eyes and smiles at him, it makes Oswald’s heart hurt. He’s just so tired of being sad. He wants to reach out and take what Edward is offering, but he’s so young, so full of life and joy, and Oswald would just leech all of that right out of him. He would end up cold and hollow, just like him. Oswald won’t do that to him. Edward deserves someone more like him, someone who shares his joy and youthful exuberance. Not an old man so lost in the darkness, he’ll never find his way out. 

The waiter brings them dessert menus. 

“I don’t think I could eat anything more,” Oswald says, putting his menu down. 

“We could maybe share one?”

“If you would like,” Oswald says easily. 

“I would like.” Edward smiles again.

He orders a slice of sour cherry strawberry meringue galette. It’s the only thing Edward chose on his own, and it was admittedly a good choice, small and rich enough to complement the rest of the meal. It feels intimate, sharing a small dessert together like this. Edward sneaks smiles at Oswald as they each lean forward to carve off pieces. 

“This entire meal was delicious,” Edward murmurs contentedly as they finish the last of the it. “I’ll have to bring my friends here. Thank you again for showing me.”

Oswald nods, looking down at the table. He doesn’t mention that this is a Michelin star restaurant and that most people usually have a three month wait to get a table here. Being mayor does come with some advantages. 

“I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you.” 

Oswald looks up and analyses his expression. He seems genuine.

“Thank you for letting me get to know you a little better.”

Why does he keep thanking Oswald? Can’t he see how damaged he is, how bad for Edward he would be?

Unless, of course, he sees past all that. And he doesn’t mind. It seems like an impossible concept—to believe it would be dangerous. 

Oswald knows the ball is in his court now. He’d said, if Oswald so chose, Edward would never contact him again. The thought of never seeing Edward again bothers him more than he would like to admit. Over the course of their short acquaintance, he’s been a beacon of light amidst all the gloom that encloses him daily, strangling him, choking him. Oswald feels almost as though if he could keep bathing in Edward’s light, he could somehow be better. More like him. Able to feel happiness. But could he do that without destroying Edward?

“When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow.”

“And how long will you be gone?”

“Two months.”

All the air feels as though it’s been sucked out of his lungs. And he knows in that moment what his decision is. He closes his eyes. 

“Will you write to me?” He opens his eyes and all his breath rushes out in a whoosh. 

Edward is smiling widely across the table at him, and Oswald knows he can see this for what it is. Letters aren’t much, and are if anything a bit old fashioned, but it’s Oswald wanting to keep Edward in his life. He is willing to try to let him in. Oswald lays his hand on the table, palm up. His breaths are shallow and uneven. He is terrified, his chest tight with panic, but he wants to give Edward a gesture. It probably doesn’t look like much to Edward, but it’s a huge step for Oswald. 

He expects that Edward will grab his hand and hold it, but what he actually does feels impossibly more intimate, because it shows he _understands_ , has learned from his mistake, and is prepared to meet him halfway. He reaches out his hand and grazes the very tips of his fingers with Oswald’s. He stares, enchanted, at their hands, as if he could feel sparks at the tiny points where they are connected. 

“I would love to.” For the first time since before he lost his mother, he almost feels like he could smile. 


	2. Do you feel the same when I'm away from you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward and Oswald write to each other.

Oswald receives a letter only a few days after Edward departs for California. Oswald’s heart thumps wildly when he sees the airmail stamp. The first letter of course arrives at City Hall, because Edward doesn’t have Oswald’s personal address. He’ll make sure he puts it in his reply. 

_Oswald,_

_I hope you are well. It’s nice to be where the sun shines – one forgets it exists in Gotham. The first few days have just been spent doing table reads and getting to know the other cast members. I can already tell the actress who’s playing Ethel Kennedy is really going to get on my nerves. You read about actors being divas when you’re growing up, but to actually see one in action is something else._

_I wanted to tell you again how glad I am that we met, and that we were able to have dinner together. I’ve thought about that evening a lot since. I thought about it a lot on the plane out here. I hope we will be able to do it again when I get back. I really want to carry on getting to know you. Though I guess we can also do that in these letters._

_I look forward to your reply._

_Thinking of you,_

_Ed_

Edward’s letters are a mark of change in his days. He is no longer sorry when he wakes up, doesn’t want to burrow back under the covers and pretend the world doesn’t exist outside of his bed like he usually does. He gets out of bed, eager to see the mail, eager to reread the letters he already has. 

He yells at people at City Hall for their staggering incompetence much less than usual, and confusion replaces the perpetual looks of terror on the faces of his staff. Oswald is so happy about his secret letters that he can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed at the way the staff stare after him and whisper when they think he’s not paying attention. 

Their letters become increasingly more personal as the weeks pass. It is of course, much easier to commit his thoughts and feelings to paper than it is to say them out loud. He finds himself pouring out his hurts to Edward, and it’s a cathartic release for him to do so. Edward seems to want to learn everything about him, and Oswald is so unbearably relieved to have someone to tell about the pain he carries wherever he goes. In the fifth week of Edward’s absence, he finally tells Edward about his mother.

_Ed,_

_I’m gratified to learn that the shoot is finally making progress, despite some people doing their utmost to make things difficult. I hope that you won’t be delayed, and that you will still be able to return to Gotham when expected. I don’t think I can wait any longer than I already have to. I am most anxious to see you again._

_I have never told you about my mother. She died suddenly, eleven years ago, at home, while I was at work. I used to work for a gangster called Fish Mooney, and I did a lot of terrible things, things I could never bring myself to tell my mother about. I suppose you could say, there was an entire part of me that she never knew about. She was unaware of my darkness. I kept it from her because I was ashamed that I wasn’t who she wanted me to be, but also partly to keep her safe._

_I found her on the sofa, one shoe off and one shoe on, evidently getting ready to go out. It was just so sudden, I had no time to prepare, no chance to say goodbye. We’d lived together until then, and it had always been just the two of us. One of the apes from the GCPD once told me I have a “mommy complex” and I’ve come to realise in the time since that perhaps living together for as long as we did was not “normal”, nor was our co-dependence. But it does not change the profound grief, which I still feel almost as sharply as the day I lost her._

_Five years ago, I was persuaded by my assistant to see a therapist. I went mostly to shut him up. It concerned him that I never smiled, and could never derive any real joy from anything other than drinking and sleeping. At least that’s what he said - I do not think he cared for my personal well-being, it was more in a futile attempt to make the life of the employees of City Hall more pleasant – less like working for Scrooge and more like working for Bruce Wayne. People actually think Bruce Wayne is more jolly than me. Can you imagine?_

_The therapist told me I have clinical depression, and a lot of problems relating to anxiety, things I probably could have deduced myself, if I’d cared to. Can you imagine what would happen if people knew? The fearsome Penguin, suffering from anxiety, fighting the desire to disassociate with the world every day._

_I stopped going to see her after she diagnosed me, and I never took the suggested medications. Maybe should have at least tried, but I feel as though there is no amount of pills that can pull me out of the blackness. It’s like crawling through an endless tunnel, without hope of finding light at the end. The darkness is infinite. I sincerely hope that you never feel anything like this._

_I hope I have not ruined a good mood with the contents of this letter. But I think, if we are to continue our acquaintance, at the very least, you deserve to know what’s wrong with me, and what you are taking on._

_Every moment I am not busy, I am thinking of you. I know we did not spend much time together, but I miss you dearly. You gave me something which I have not had in a long time – hope._

_Yours,  
Oswald_

He becomes increasingly nervous and panicked when he doesn’t receive a reply to his last letter for a week. One week becomes two, and Oswald thinks he must have ruined things by telling Edward too much. 

Piror to the beginning of the third week, instead of going to work every single day like he usually does, he takes Saturday to himself. He sits in his favourite armchair by the fire, his glass of whiskey shaking in his hand. 

He should have known it was too good to be true. He has probably found an attractive young man or woman (he realises belatedly that he doesn’t know Edward’s preferences) to spend his time with. Oswald knows there are a lot of good looking, sun-kissed people in California. He tells himself this is what Edward _should_ have. He wants happiness for Edward, and he won’t find that with a vampire-like creature from the shadows of Gotham City. 

He never even really _knew_ Edward. There’s no reason it should hurt this much. He stares sadly into the flames. 

“Mr Cobblepot,” Olga says, coming noisily into the room.

“Not now Olga. I don’t want to be disturbed for the rest of the day.”

A letter is thrust under his nose. 

With an air mail stamp. _Par Avion_. Oswald gasps, hardly able to believe what he is seeing. Those words have never looked so beautiful. 

“Thank you,” he says, taking the letter from her. She tuts as she shuffles out of the room.

The envelope feels thick, as though it has a lot of pages inside it. Oswald feels stupid and giddy, and he distractedly puts his glass down at an angle so that it spins precariously on the table, liquid almost sloshing over the rim.

Despite his eagerness, he opens the letter carefully, because he wants to treasure Edward’s letters to him always. 

_Oswald,_

_I am sorry about the delay in sending this letter to you. The days on set have been very long and hot, and I always try to write a little to you when I get back to my hotel, but I usually fall asleep. I’m completely exhausted and drained beyond measure._

_I’m afraid I also have bad news. I will be away for another month as something that I was wasn’t supposed to shoot until later in the year has been rescheduled. The producers probably think I’m a bit of a diva now as I made a big fuss about the quick turnaround – a day between the end of this project and starting the next one in Vancouver. I told them all I wanted was a weekend so I could get back home to Gotham and see someone important to me, but they said they simply could not change the schedule. They offered to fly you out west to be with me (they don’t know who you are obviously), but of course you will be far too busy to leave Gotham at such short notice. I miss you so much. I’m so tired. I just want to go home to you._

_I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, Oswald. Everyone has their struggles. And I admire you, for doing such an important job, in such a high-profile role, despite your anxieties. You’ve never let the people of Gotham down, and how many politicians can say that? None._

_I won’t pretend I don’t understand what working for Fish Mooney must have entailed. She was legendary. Are you a dangerous man, Oswald? Please say yes. _

_I’m sorry to learn about your mother. I’m sure she was an amazing lady, looking at the son she raised. I don’t really like to talk about my parents, or my childhood. Perhaps I will tell you one day, but not in a letter. I will say that I used to get bullied at school, and it continued well into my teens. For a long time after, my self-esteem was far too low for me to believe I could make it as an actor, or as anything, really. There was a period when I was getting rejected from everything, and I wanted to give up entirely. I really believed I was worthless, and had no place in the world. But I kept trying, and as I told you before, I got that job that I took before I found out about the outcome of the job at the GCPD. Sometimes all it takes is one good day, to change everything. _

_I do know what it’s like to live without hope. It’s bleak, and getting up every day is a struggle. I have been happy these last few years when I finally started to find success, but it’s extraordinarily difficult, living this nomadic lifestyle as I move from project to project. It was a novelty when I was cast in A &P because I actually got to live at home in my own apartment for more than two weeks. I love what I do, and I wouldn’t change it for anything, but I’ve often wished I had a fixed point to return to. I mean, I have my apartment of course, but it would be nice if there was someone waiting for me. _

_Perhaps we can give each other hope. I think you see yourself as a burden, and you don’t want me to feel like I have to carry the weight of your sadness too. I don’t see it like that at all. What I see is someone I want to get close to, if you’ll let me…._

Edward goes on to talk more about his days on set and about the next project in Vancouver, and Oswald hungrily devours every detail, but he keeps coming back to the earlier parts of the letter. Edward _relates_ to him. Edward had asked him if he was a dangerous man, and the underlining was suggestive of mirth. He can just see, in his mind’s eye, Edward asking the question in an exaggerated flirtatious manner. There is a smile tugging at his lips. 

Edward said he wanted to come _home_ to _him_. But best of all, he’d said he wanted to get _close_ to him. Oswald looks around at random objects in the room, not quite sure what to do with himself—he can’t remember the last time he felt excitement bubble inside him like this. He clutches the letter to his chest. This particular letter means everything to him. 

Oswald wants to be the one who waits for Edward, wants to be the difference between returning to an empty apartment and returning home. 

But now, he has even longer to wait. What was one week, is now another five. Towards the end of the letter, Edward promised he would carry on writing from Vancouver. Not once does he suggest they talk over the phone instead. Oswald thinks that somehow, he knows. He understands that it is so much easier to write than it is to speak, at least for Oswald. He can make speeches in front of the media, in front of crowds, in front of CEOs, but to sit down and open his heart to someone, well, the very idea makes his extremities shake. He thinks he could probably manage it with Edward though. Edward gives him courage.

Oswald hurries to his office to write one last reply that Edward will receive in California, before he starts sending him letters from Canada. 

  


* * *

  


__

The next month passes quickly, and before he knows it there is only one more week before Edward is due to return to Gotham. Oswald hopes there isn’t another delay, he is not sure he could wait any longer.

__

Their letters have become increasingly intimate. Oswald confessed to having a dream where he woke up to find Edward wrapped around him. Edward responded saying he has been wondering what it would be like to kiss him. Oswald absently touches his lips, feeling both exhilarated and terrified. He has never kissed anyone before, and wonders if he would like it. Oswald has never really considered the physical intimacies of a relationship before, isn’t sure how he feels about it. Perhaps with Edward he would be interested-- _because_ it’s Edward. Yes, in that case, he thinks he would maybe come to like it. 

__

  


* * *

  


__

Oswald stands by the window in the entrance hall of the mansion, alternating between watching for the cab signalling Edward’s arrival, and nervously pacing back and forth. Edward is coming straight from the airport to see him, having left in the middle of the night after the last day of the shoot in Vancouver, instead of sleeping and leaving the next day. They spoke briefly on the phone to arrange it, and Oswald tried to persuade him to get a good night’s sleep and leave in the morning, but Edward said he couldn’t wait, and went straight to the airport to get the next available flight to Gotham. 

__

The thought that Edward couldn’t wait to get back to him leaves Oswald short of breath. The sun is barely over the horizon, it’s still very early--so early the birds are singing to mark the coming dawn. 

__

At last, there’s the crunch of gravel and a cab comes up the driveway and swings around to park parallel to the door. After a moment, Edward steps out, and grabs a suitcase and duffle bag from the trunk. Despite the fact he has just sat on a plane for five hours through the night, he is wearing a suit with a simple t-shirt underneath, and has clearly made an effort to freshen up, probably at Gotham Airport when he arrived. 

__

The cab drives off, and Edward makes his way up the steps. Oswald opens the door and waits. When Edward gets to the top of the steps, he looks up. The moment their eyes meet, something inside Oswald cracks open and overflows. Edward’s eyes widen and he looks amazed. Oswald is suddenly concerned. 

__

“What is it?”

__

Edward dumps his bags on the floor just inside the door before closing it behind him. He walks right up to Oswald, his hands hovering over the sides of Oswald’s face as if in question. Oswald gives a small nod, and Edward is cupping his face, smoothing his thumbs over his cheeks. Oswald closes his eyes for a few moments, enjoying the feeling of being touched so reverently. When he opens them again, Edward’s own eyes are full of… _something_. Oswald doesn’t dare to put a name to it. 

__

“You were _smiling_.”

__

Oswald can feel it happening again, the corners of his mouth tugging impossibly wide, in what he supposes must be a full smile. Edward’s eyes dart back and forth; the man is practically buzzing with excitement. 

__

Oswald feels emboldened by his newfound ability to express happiness, and he lowers Edward’s hands from his face, and puts his arms about his neck instead. He wraps his own arms around Edward’s back, and pulls him closer. His face is against Edward’s chest, and he holds him even tighter, breathing him in. Edward’s here, he’s real, he’s not 2500 miles away anymore. He’s _here_.

__

They stand like that for a long time, Edward occasionally squeezing him tighter as if to reassure himself that Oswald is really there too. Oswald knows for a fact that he has never been this happy. 

__

It’s not until Edward starts to sag a little, that Oswald remembers he hasn’t slept. His leg is starting to hurt, and he’s more than a little tired himself. Oswald didn’t really manage to sleep either--the anticipation was far too much.

__

Oswald steps back, pulling Edward’s arms from around him gently, before timidly taking one of Edward’s hands in his and picking up the larger of his bags. 

__

“I think we could both use some sleep now.”

__

“We? Didn’t you sleep last night?”

__

“Very little. Didn’t want to risk oversleeping.” Oswald glances at Edward shyly. Edward grins down at him and squeezes his hand. 

__

Oswald leads them up to his bedroom. He points out the connected bathroom, so Edward can go and get changed. He retrieves some pyjamas from his suitcase along with his washbag and shoots him a smile before he heads into the bathroom. Oswald gets changed as quickly as possible and goes to the bathroom down the hall to brush his teeth so as not to waste time waiting around. 

__

When he returns he finds Edward perched on one side of the bed. 

__

“You must be exhausted,” Oswald comments as he turns off the main light. The dawn light filtering through the curtains provides more than enough light for him to see to make his way over to the bed. 

__

“Yes, I’d say this wasn’t one of my best ideas, but that would be a lie.”

__

Oswald feels his lips do that peculiar stretching thing again, and looks down, blushing. He toes off his slippers and gets into the other side of the bed, laying on his back. Edward gets in too, turning on his side to face him. 

__

“Well, well, Mr. Mayor. I didn’t think we’d end up in bed together this fast.” 

__

A strange sound bursts forth from Oswald’s mouth, and he claps a hand to it, belatedly recognising the sound as laughter. He chuckles some more, he can’t help it. It’s so alien, but it feels so good, so freeing. He glances at Edward, his hand still covering his mouth. His eyes are alight with mirth, watching him. 

__

Even though he’d made a joke, Oswald feels he should probably address the seriousness of the subject matter. He thinks Edward understands, but he should be clear, just in case. 

__

“Ed—I’m not quite—I’m not—”

__

“It’s okay,” Edward interrupts. “I know. I can wait. And if that day never comes, that’s okay too.”

__

Oswald exhales shakily with relief. Edward touches his fingertips to Oswald’s like he’d done at the restaurant all those months ago, smiling sleepily at him. Oswald loves what the gesture has come to mean for them. 

__

“Thank you,” Oswald says, trying not to cry--Edward's understanding means more than he can say. He looks across at Edward, but he is already falling asleep, his hand dropping back into the space between them. 

__

Oswald doesn’t really understand what he did to deserve the man beside him, but he sends out a thanks to the universe anyway, as he too falls asleep.

__


	3. Do you know the line that I'd walk for you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward and Oswald enjoy living together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is 150% fluff, because of course things have to be as good as they possibly can be before everything goes to hell ;)

They wake up a little after midday, or rather, Oswald wakes up to find Edward sitting up in bed beside him, doing a crossword puzzle. 

“Morning,” Oswald croaks drowsily.

“Afternoon,” Edward replies with a smile. “One word, nine letters. Fourth letter ‘R’. Eigth letter, ‘O.’ Clue: after rain.” 

“Petrichor,” Oswald says after a couple of moment’s thought, rolling onto his back and sweeping hair off his forehead.

Edward hastily scribbles the word in and then looks down at Oswald, pleased. “I’ve never even heard that word before. It’s been annoying me for the past half hour.”

“It’s one of my favourites,” Oswald says, laying his hands on his stomach above the blankets. “It’s the smell of rain on dry earth. It’s rather poetic, I think.”

“Petrichor,” Edward repeats, and Oswald gets the impression he’s feeling how the word sounds in his mouth. “Yes, I like it.”

“It’s one of those words which seems to perfectly reflect its meaning.” Oswald murmurs. “Is there a term for that?”

“I don’t think so,” Edward says, thoughtfully. “The nearest thing I can think of is onomatopoeia. Derived from Greek, meaning ‘imitation of sound’--but that’s more for words such as ‘boom’ which sounds like the noise it’s written to describe.”

Oswald nods and raises his eyebrows, impressed. “Is this an interest of yours?”

“Oh yes. I enjoy linguistics, and word games. Mostly puzzles though. I’ve been doing them since I was little. They comfort me.”

“I still have so much to learn about you.”

Edward lowers his quarter-folded newspaper and pen and turns to fully face Oswald. “You can ask me anything. If there’s something you want to know, go ahead.”

One thing comes immediately to mind, and he decides to plough ahead with it while he’s too sleep-fogged to think the better of it. 

“Are you gay?”

Edward gives him a small, knowing smile. “No. I’m attracted to both men and women.”

Oswald nods, keeping his expression carefully blank. Oswald can’t imagine ever being attracted to a woman. Not that it matters--he can’t imagine being attracted to anyone other than Edward. 

“Are you?”

Oswald should have predicted being counter-asked, really. He frowns, because it isn’t quite so simple for him. Oswald wishes he had Edward’s conviction and confidence in that side of himself. He feels like he should sit up to answer, so he does.

“I don’t know,” he begins. “I think so? I never thought about anything like that until I met you.”

“Wow,” Edward says breathily. Oswald thinks he can see a slight blush on his cheeks.

“What?”

“That’s quite a compliment,” Edward answers, his smile lop-sided. 

“Is it?” Oswald asks, unsure. One of the fluffy strands of his hair comes loose again and tickles the end of his nose. 

“Of course! I can’t imagine anyone who wouldn’t be flattered by your attentions.”

Oswald looks down at his lap, blowing the rogue strand away from his nose. “You mean because I’m the mayor.”

“What? No--that’s not what I meant. Please look at me.”

Edward’s hand hovers next to Oswald’s cheek, waiting for permission. Oswald’s expression softens and he tilts his head towards Edward’s hand. He strokes his fingertips across Oswald’s cheekbone.

“How can you not see how beautiful you are? You have so much beauty and charisma. You can hold an entire crowd of people in the palm of your hand with just a look. Your presence is awe-inspiring. I’ll be working my whole life to try and achieve what comes to you naturally.” There’s no bitterness behind his words, just appreciative honesty. “And the way you look--you’re so handsome it makes me nervous.”

“Edward, you don’t need to--”

“--Please let me.” Edward traces the lines of Oswald’s eyebrows. “You’re so regal, and your eyes are quite extraordinary. I can tell you’re well-read and highly intelligent. Everything about you is captivating.”

Oswald doesn’t think he has ever blushed so hard. 

“Please believe me when I say that there are a lot of men who would love to be sitting here like this, with you.” Edward smooths the stray strand back into Oswald’s hair, his fingers running over Oswald’s scalp and making him sigh with pleasure. He closes his eyes, grateful when Edward continues the motion. 

“You’re the only one that matters,” Oswald hears himself saying. When he opens his eyes, he sees Edward staring at him, astonished. Oswald immediately starts to worry that he’s gone too far. Time for a distraction. “I’m sorry,” he says, hastily getting out of bed and fetching his favourite ornate robe, and a spare one for Edward. “I’ve been such a terrible host. Shall we get some lunch? I suppose it’s too late for breakfast. I am definitely in need some coffee, though.”

Oswald leaves the room before Edward can say anything, and hears him following as he reaches the stairs. 

They have lunch together, some of the awkwardness gradually diffusing. Edward doesn’t seem uncomfortable at all, and keeps smiling warmly at him from his place at Oswald’s left hand-side. He seems happy--perhaps his statement wasn’t so problematic after all.

  


* * *

  


Edward stays at the mansion, seemingly glad of a place to hide away from the madness of life as an actor. The grounds are more than large enough for him to get enough exercise without leaving the property, and he often wanders in the gardens, or at least tells Oswald as much. He seems content. Even though all they do is hug, eat, talk and read together, he seems happy, and unbelievably, to think it’s _enough_.

Things between them, put simply, are _easy_. Edward never tries for more than what he is given, and they don’t really touch at all except for the hugs. _The hugs_. They are the best part of Oswald’s days, though any of the time he spends with Edward is automatically better than anything that takes place during his work day. But they hug _everywhere_. In the hallway when Oswald comes home from work, in the kitchen when Edward fixes them drinks, before they go to bed, before Oswald goes to work. They hold each other tightly, their hands roving comfortingly over each other’s backs. It becomes quite sordid really, and Oswald tells him as much. Edward raises an eyebrow and gives him a look that Oswald has come to recognize as private amusement, as he asks, “did you just make a joke?”

Yes he did. Oswald is more shocked than anyone.

His favourite part of their daily routine is after they have dinner together, when they retire to their chairs by the fire. They recommend a lot of books to each other, and Edward does a lot of reading while Oswald is at work in the city. They usually discuss his thoughts on what he has read during these evenings by the fire. Oswald wishes he had more time to read. 

“Who do you think was the better military strategist?” Edward asks, on the first Friday evening since he arrived, laying his book on his lap and picking up his glass of wine. “Napoleon Bonaparte or Horatio Nelson?”

Oswald lowers his own book and looks across at where Edward is seated, on the other side of the fireplace. “Given the outcome of the Napoleonic Wars, is that question not a little moot?”

“Not necessarily,” Edward says. “You can lose major battles and still win the war.”

Oswald is impressed, as he always is, at Edward’s wealth of knowledge. “True. It’s hard to say. Nelson had naval mastery but Napoleon was undoubtedly better at maneuvering land forces. The more apt comparison would probably be between Nelson and Villeneuve.”

“Given the outcome of the Battle of Trafalgar, is that question not a little moot?” Edward says with a grin, and the game is set. 

This is something Oswald has come to love, when Edward pushes him to think about things differently, or questions Oswald’s long established conclusions. Oswald very much enjoys the challenge of defending his opinions, and finding out what Edward’s are. He is quickly learning that Edward’s intelligence and thirst for knowledge exceeds even his own. He could quite happily spend the rest of his days sparring with Edward like this. 

As they move into the second week, Edward expresses a desire to get out of the mansion, so Oswald takes him to his favourite restaurants for dinner. They’re all secluded places that are vetted and practiced at catering to Oswald’s need for privacy. Oswald decides he trusts Edward enough to begin to tell him about his work, and the darker side of it, how he balances the crime families and controls illegal shipments, moving everything like chess pieces. Edward listens, his attention rapt, absorbing all the details and considering every possibility of each situation that arises. Oswald even begins to take on board Edward’s advice after he has a rather good idea about how to resolve a territorial dispute, realizing that in two weeks, Edward has been more helpful to him than Tarquin has over the entirety of the ten years he’s worked as his assistant. 

Tarquin is noticeably frosty towards Edward, on the few occasions they interact. For such a long time, Tarquin has been the only one Oswald kept in close confidence, but only professionally. They have never been friends, and Tarquin always seemed content to maintain a professional distance from him, which suited Oswald just fine. But he stays polite, and factors Edward in as part of Oswald’s life when discussing arrangements for parties and ceremonies, without any barbed comments. He would be idiotic to jeopardize his position now, in any case. He is handsomely paid and lives lavishly, often entertaining young ladies at his home, fancying himself as quite the desirable bachelor. Oswald knows more about what he gets up to than he would like. 

The last night before Edward goes back to work, Oswald breaks out a rather special bottle of wine, a nicely aged Burgundy that he’s been saving. For what, he couldn’t say. He never celebrated anything before he met Edward. 

“Here, let me carry them,” Edward offers, smiling warmly. He moves to pick up the bottle and the two glasses, but Oswald stops him by gently touching his arm. The emotions he feels towards Edward are threatening to spill over, and he wants to do _something_ that shows him how much he appreciates everything he’s done, how happy he has made Oswald over the past two weeks. 

With shaking hands, he takes one of Edward’s in both of his, and looks up at him.

He has been thinking more and more over the past week, that it might be nice to kiss him. Every night when Edward’s concentration is on whatever book he’s reading, he watches the firelight play over his features. Oswald has lost count of the number of times he has read the same line in his book over and over again because his eyes are constantly drawn to Edward. He really is very attractive, and every time he stares at him he wonders what on earth Edward is doing here with him. Usually his thoughts start to spiral into insecurity at that point, and he resolves to ignore his thoughts and go back to reading his book. But the fact remains that his physical attraction to Edward is starting to grow.

Edward turns to face him, the full weight of his gaze on Oswald. 

“I just wanted to thank you for spending these past two weeks with me. I know this probably isn’t how you spend time with people, and this isn’t exactly…conventional.”

“I feel as though my virtue was just insulted,” Edward says, but he looks amused. 

Even though he’s joking, Oswald is mortified. “I didn’t mean--”

“I know what you meant,” Edward smiles. “The way I have…interacted with other people is different, certainly. But what I have with you is so much more fulfilling. I’ve never met anyone before who I can discuss almost everything with. Someone who takes a genuine interest in history and classics, who I can talk with for hours. A real meeting of the minds, as it were. That’s worth more than a physical connection, I think.” He looks down at their hands. “But, it’s no secret that I very much enjoy being close to you.”

If there was ever a moment to kiss him, this is it. The lead in is perfect, and all he has to do is pull Edward down towards him, make time his. But Oswald is still so afraid, and even though he is beginning to fully place his trust in Edward, he still isn’t quite comfortable enough to initiate _that_ side of the relationship. He has been thinking about it quite a lot, all the possibilities there are to explore, but it’s one thing to think about it, and quite another to make oneself vulnerable to another person in such a way. 

Edward slowly lowers his forehead to Oswald’s, but he isn’t worried about Edward trying to kiss him, or expecting something from him. He won’t do anything without Oswald’s express permission. 

“I’ve been thinking about kissing you,” Oswald murmurs very quietly. He feels Edward’s hand reflexively squeeze his, watches as he momentarily stops breathing. Edward brings his other hand up to rest on Oswald’s shoulder, as if to steady himself. 

“I think I want to--soon.” Oswald adds.

“I definitely want you to,” Edward says on a long exhale. “Though I think it may kill me when you do.” He grins, though his breathing is still a little ragged. Oswald chuckles, though inwardly he’s aflame--a fire kindled and fanned by such magnificent praise. Edward moves to hook his chin over Oswald’s shoulder, in a reassuring and calming embrace. 

“I think I’m ready for that glass of wine now,” Edward says after a little while, stepping back and picking up the bottle and glasses. Oswald chuckles. 

“Me too.” 

They go through to their seats by the fire, placing the wine on a table between them, and proceed to have a lovely evening discussing the philosophies of Plato. 

  


* * *

  


One particular evening in the middle of the third week, Edward calls Oswald to say he won’t be back until ten, and not to wait up for him. Oswald decides it’s the perfect opportunity to do something for Edward that he has been considering and secretly planning over the last few days. 

He heads up to the bathroom a little before ten, and arranges candles around the room, lighting them as he goes. He runs the water in the claw foot tub, adding bubble baths of Edward’s favourite scents (he’d been very clever in how he found out), and some bath salts. He hangs up the robe he’d bought for Edward in the city, a beautiful plush dark green velvet, on the back of the door. Some silk pajamas are folded on top of one of the cabinets, ready for him to change into, beside a pile of sumptuously soft towels. For the finishing touch, he adds a glass of white wine to the small table beside the tub, between two candles. 

He has no idea if Edward even likes baths, asking outright would be too conspicuous. He has noticed that Edward only ever takes showers, perhaps thinking it a bit presumptuous to assume he may have use of the bath tub. Part of this idea is that he wants Edward to know he’s welcome to use _everything_ in the mansion, and should treat the place as his own. 

At that moment he hears the door, and he hurries out of the bathroom with one last glance to check everything is perfect. 

Oswald looks over the railing into the hallway where Edward is just peeling off his coat. 

“Welcome home, Ed,” Oswald calls softly. 

Edward looks up, and his whole face breaks into a smile the moment their eyes meet. Oswald doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to having someone looking forward to seeing him, much less looking at him like _that_. 

Edward hangs up his coat and bounds up the stairs, three steps at a time, and the next thing Oswald knows, he’s being wrapped tightly in Edward’s embrace. He’s such a thin man, yet his hugs are all encompassing. Oswald loves them. 

“I’ve had such a long day,” he sighs, tightening his hold. Oswald can feel some of the tension drain out of his body just from the hug. It couldn’t be more perfect really, Edward certainly sounds like he could do with a relaxing soak.

“I told you not to wait up,” Edward reprimands gently, when they finally part.

Oswald takes one of Edward’s hands in both of his. “I wanted to see you. You left before I woke up, and I didn’t want to go to sleep before you got home. I…don’t want any days without you in them.”

Edward smiles and caresses Oswald’s cheek with his other hand. “You make me very happy.” 

The way he says it makes Oswald’s heartbeat kick up a notch, and his extremities start to tingle. There’s a sensual, reverent quality to his words that sets his blood on fire. Oswald knows he’s headed into wholly unfamiliar territory, and it terrifies him because he knows he’s beginning to want it. 

He swallows.

“Though there is another reason I waited up for you,” Oswald says, smiling mysteriously.

“Oh?” 

“Follow me.” Keeping Edward’s hand in one of his, he leads Edward to the bathroom door. Before he opens the door he says, “close your eyes.”

Edward raises an eyebrow but does as he’s bid, and Oswald leads him into the room, positioning him so he can see everything. 

“Okay, you can open them.”

Edward looks around curiously, taking in all the details, before looking back at Oswald. 

“You did all this for me?”

“I know you always take showers, and perhaps you don’t even like baths, but they are one of my absolute favourite ways to relax, and I thought you might enjoy it.”

“I’ve never really had them,” Edward says, eyeing the room with wonder. “I’ve always either never had one, couldn’t afford one, or didn’t have the time for one.”

“Well you said you’ve had a long day. Maybe this will help you to relax.”

“This is really wonderful Oswald, thank you.” The look on Edward’s face can only be described as amazement.

“My pleasure.” He needs to leave before the bath water gets cold, and the wine becomes tepid. “I’ll retire now. Goodnight Edward.” He turns to go, but Edward grabs his arm, and Oswald turns around, his back to the door. Edward slowly approaches and Oswald notices his hands are shaking as he places them on Oswald’s shoulders. He leans in, so his lips are almost brushing Oswald’s ear. 

“May I… kiss you on the cheek?” His voice is rough and skimming the borderline of desperation, and Oswald knows, as Edward leans back to look at him and wait for permission, that he would back away instantly if he said no. Even though Edward’s pupils are dilated and his mouth slightly open. Even though Oswald can read desire in every line of his features. This is the first time he’s ever dared to ask for anything, Oswald realizes. It’s a two-way street after all. Oswald asked for the hugs—they should both be able to ask for things or discuss them equally, rather than Edward always waiting for Oswald to initiate. 

Before Oswald has had time to really retreat into his head about the situation, he finds himself whispering, “yes,” and Edward is smiling, an incredible warmth in his eyes, as he licks his lips and leans in.

Oswald’s heart starts pounding even faster as he feels Edward’s breath on his cheek, and then the softness of his lips as they lightly brush the hollow beneath his cheekbone. Edward parts his lips slightly and press a little harder, and Oswald’s legs almost buckle as he realizes he is being kissed. He grips Edward’s arms just beneath the elbows to steady himself. Edward ends the kiss with a little smacking sound which affects Oswald more than it should. He nuzzles Oswald’s cheek before placing a tiny barely-there second kiss on his cheekbone, then pulls away. 

Oswald stares up at him, acutely aware of everything in a way he never was before; the softness of Edward’s features as backlit by the candles, his hands now resting on either side of his waist, burning holes in his clothes. They snake around him as Edward pulls him in for another hug, seemingly unable to stop touching him. Edward’s face nestles in his neck, breathing him in, while Oswald’s hands roam across the back of the thin white shirt Edward is wearing. Unthinkingly, Oswald increases the pressure, struck by a sudden desire to get his hands under the shirt, to feel Edward’s hot skin. The thought is incredibly arousing; he’s caught glimpses of his back in bed when his pyjama shirt is rucked up, or when he reaches up for things and Oswald just knows it’s beautiful, like the rest of him undoubtedly is. He doesn’t do it though, fearful of pushing himself too far and into things he’s not ready for yet. He contents himself with tracing the long lines of the dips and curves, as Edward's lips move lightly over Oswald’s throat. When he touches between Edward’s shoulder blades, applying pressure with his fingers, he lets out a sound that Oswald has never heard before—it goes straight to his groin, and he’s so overwhelmed by desire that he stops all movement. Edward stops too, hurrying to disentangle himself and step back to give Oswald space. 

Edward looks deeply embarrassed and a little panicked and promptly starts babbling. “I’m sorry, that was too much, I—”

“No,” Oswald interrupts, “it’s okay. I… I wanted it.”

Edward looks relieved, and ventures a smile. Oswald smiles tentatively back. The magnitude of what just happened is reverberating through his mind, but not in a negative way. Though that in itself is rather terrifying.

“You really should…” Oswald gestures to the bath tub. “It’s going to get cold.”

“Right,” Edward replies, pursing his lips sheepishly.

“Goodnight Edward,” Oswald murmurs, fumbling for the door handle, unable to take his eyes off him.

When he finally closes the door he simply stands there, fingers on his lips, heart thumping loudly. After a few dazed moments, he hobbles over to the banister and leans on it for support. He feels utterly intoxicated--that he could draw such reactions from Edward--such _sounds_. The memory of it sizzles in his blood like firecrackers. He looks down and realises two things: one, that he is aroused, and two, that he wants to do something about it. 

He thinks about Edward’s lips grazing his neck and absently closes his eyes, running his fingers lightly over the places Edward had touched. He lets out his breath slowly, his other hand tightening on the banister as he remembers that _moan_. Oswald thinks about what other sounds he might be able to have Edward make, just from the smallest of caresses. 

He decides to use another bathroom for a shower, so he can take care of his needs. He doesn't want to risk Edward walking in on _that_.

It marks the first time he has masturbated and thought of another person, rather than simply doing it occasionally because it's biologically necessary. 

It ends up being the best orgasm he has ever had.

  


* * *

  


Edward takes several deep breaths in an attempt to steady himself, overwhelmed as he is by the intensity of their encounter. He doesn’t hear Oswald’s footsteps trudging along the landing; perhaps he is also lingering, taken aback by feeling too.

Edward turns back to the bath then, enchanted by the tealights, the glass of wine, even the book he is currently reading sitting on the table beside the bath. It all looks so inviting, and he finally starts undressing himself. He hangs his clothes up beside that beautiful robe he can’t wait to step into afterward.

He tests the water, still a nice temperature, but it was probably better when Oswald had first gotten it ready. Edward runs the hot tap for a little while, until the tub is steaming once again. As he lowers himself in, he can’t help the little gratified moan as the water soothes the aching muscles of his back. 

It really has been a long while since he took the time to relax like this. He leans his head back against the top of the tub and sighs blissfully.

The wine glass is dropping condensation onto the table, the little puddle getting precariously close to the book. Edward decides he had better drink it before it warms up too much. 

As the wine pleasantly bubbles through his system, he considers again how extraordinary such small touches had been, and how they had turned him on more than anything ever had before. He has had many lovers—or more accurately sexual partners—and he has enjoyed it immensely. But it had never been the way it was with Oswald, all about the emotional connection. Before, it was more about riding the highs of his performances, scratching a mutual itch. Nothing had ever been like this—had ever felt like this. Just the simple movements of Oswald’s hands across his back, the light pressure of his fingers—it had set him on fire. 

He is too fired up to concentrate on the book, so he simply lays back and closes his eyes, and replays everything that happened over and over again. He feels _happy_. He allows himself a wide smile.

Eventually, when the water is tepid, he steps out and dries himself with the beautifully soft towels Oswald has laid out. His pyjamas are waiting for him to change into as well—Oswald really had thought of everything. 

The robe feels as good as it looks, and he’s sorry he’s only going to get to wear it for the few minutes it takes him to put out the candles, brush his teeth and go to their bedroom. 

Relaxed and entirely content, he steps into the dimly lit bedroom. There’s a single lamp on Edward’s side of the bed giving the room a shadowy glow—if Oswald goes to bed first he always leaves a light on.

With a sigh he hangs the robe on the back of the door, running a hand over its velvety softness one last time. He approaches the bed as quietly as he can. It seems Oswald is asleep, he is very still and his breaths are long and slow. As Edward looks at him, he feels a sense of peace that he doesn’t think he has ever experienced. The room is silent but for his breaths, and Edward realises that he wants every night to be like this. Calm, warm, happy. 

He sits on the bed and switches off the lamp, before getting under the covers and curling on his side—his left side, the one he always sleeps on. Which unfortunately means he always sleeps facing away from Oswald. For a few moments he doesn’t hear any movement, and he closes his eyes, pleased he hasn’t woken Oswald up.

But then he feels the mattress dip behind him, as Oswald’s warmth comes closer. He shuffles across the space between them until he’s flush against Edward’s back. Edward hardly dares breathe—what if Oswald is asleep and dreaming? He might not be comfortable with this proximity in their bed, as they’ve only ever slept apart before. Should Edward wake him up, so he doesn’t panic in the morning, finding himself in a disorienting and alarming position?

Oswald slips an arm around Edward’s waist then, and murmurs against his neck, “is this all right?”

As if it would ever _not_ be all right. As long as Oswald is comfortable with it.

“Yes,” Edward whispers back, finding Oswald’s hand and squeezing it to reassure him. 

“Good. Because you smell divine,” Oswald says sleepily. 

Edward can’t help the small chuckle that escapes him, which abruptly cuts off when he feels Oswald plant a feather-light kiss on the nape of his neck, sending tingles down his spine. Edward sighs deeply and closes his eyes. 

Yes, he wants every night to be just like this.


	4. Oh the storm is raging against us now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald and Edward's relationship becomes the subject of public scrutiny.

When Edward wakes up the following morning, he can tell Oswald is still sleeping from the feeling of his slow even breaths against the back of his neck. The second thing Edward notices is that Oswald’s hand is resting on Edward’s bare stomach, underneath his pyjama shirt. 

Oswald’s hand is on his bare skin. Edward tenses, almost unbearably turned on by this one small touch. It’s not helped by the fact it’s low on his stomach too, close to the waistband of his pyjama pants. 

The safest course of action here is to extricate himself, since Oswald may have not deliberately touched him like this—almost certainly hadn’t, since the previous night he had asked if _snuggling_ was all right. 

Edward gently takes his hand away and lifts it so he can start to shuffle out of his embrace. He thinks he has successfully managed it until he lies on his back and turns to look at Oswald, who cracks an eye open suspiciously.

“Everything all right?” He asks sleepily.

“Yes, fine, just needed to stretch is all,” Edward says, and it’s not entirely a lie. While it’s incredibly romantic sleeping in someone’s arms all night, it does make one’s muscles ache from staying in one position.

“Hmm,” Oswald acknowledges. “Finished?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Edward replies, watching this grumpy early morning Oswald with amusement. 

Oswald opens his other eye and narrows them at Edward, clearly expecting him to move back into his embrace. Edward, however, purses his lips cheekily and raises his eyebrows in challenge.

“I see,” Oswald says, lip twitching. Edward doesn’t think he has ever seen Oswald so carefree and playful. 

He watches Edward, still and quiet as a leopard watching its prey, and of course, ready to attack. His arm darts out in a sudden movement and wraps around Edward’s waist, pulling him across the space with surprising strength, leaving them lying flush against each other’s fronts. 

He chuckles breathlessly at Oswald’s behaviour, and is once again overwhelmed by the desire to lean down, tip his chin up and kiss him, but of course he suppresses it. Oswald twines their legs together and whispers against Edward’s chest, “mine.”

His former arousal comes back full force at Oswald’s possessiveness. He must be able to feel it with their entire bodies pressed together like this. Oswald doesn’t say anything about it though, simply nuzzling into him and murmuring, “alarm isn’t going off yet. More sleep.”

Edward smirks and closes his eyes, still somewhat unable to believe the fact that this is his life now.

  


* * *

  


The next time Edward wakes up, there’s no warmth wrapped around him. Confused, he opens his eyes to see Oswald laying on his back a short distance away, hands on his chest and staring at the ceiling. 

“Are you okay, Oswald?” Edward asks croakily.

Oswald doesn’t reply immediately, and doesn’t look at him either. Something is wrong.

“I had a dream about my mother.”

Edward shuffles a little closer, but doesn’t touch Oswald. He swallows contemplatively. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“I dream often of my mother,” Oswald starts, determinedly not looking at Edward. “And I’ve had this dream before. It’s based on one of my favourite memories—from when I was a child and we used to go to the fair. We always used to go on those spinning teacup rides, and in my dream it’s just endless spinning, which you’d think would be nauseating, but we’re always huddled together under a blanket, and it’s the most comforting thing you could imagine. We just laugh in a blur of lights and colour, and that’s the dream. But this one—this one ended differently. The ride started to slow down, and everything around us got dark. I looked around, wondering where all that colour was, and then back to where my mother was sitting, only to find her gone.”

Edward hesitantly covers one of Oswald’s hands with his own. 

“I know what it means. That was the last dream I’ll ever have about her.” He inhales shakily. “I don’t know if I was ready to say goodbye.”

Edward doesn’t know what to say, simply squeezes Oswald’s hand. 

“I know it must seem strange to you, a grown man unable to let go of his mother. But after she died, I never believed anyone else would, or could, care for me. I thought I would always be alone. In school they called me ugly, strange—a face only a mother could love. Even now they write about my hideousness in the papers as comparable to the monsters I try to eradicate. When I look in the mirror, all I see is what they see, now that there’s no one left to see anything else.”

Edward is deeply troubled by the way Oswald views himself. If only Oswald could see what he sees, the beauty, the elegance, his huge capacity for love. He wants to tell him how much time he spends dreaming about being together when they’re not, how desperate he is to touch him, to know him in the most intimate way. How his desire for him is all consuming—that the smallest of touches renders him incapable of thinking about anything else. Edward has never wanted anyone so badly in his life.

“So why not use it to my advantage?” Oswald continues. “They fear my strangeness, they don’t dare to approach me. Anything that’s said about me is not said to me directly. At least I am spared that pain. But I see their looks of disgust at City Hall. People are polite—they’re too afraid to be otherwise—but I know how they see me. I’m a monster. And this is what happens when you don’t experience love or affection for ten years, when you isolate yourself from everyone. You go through each day, doing what needs to be done, but not really living.” Oswald stops and just breathes for a few moments, putting his other hand on top of Edward’s and enclosing it in both of his. “I’ve always thought that someone wanting to be my friend was improbable. But someone experiencing desire for me?” Oswald turns to look at Edward then, and he feels caught, like an escaping criminal in a searchlight. “Well that seemed entirely beyond the realm of possibility.”

It seems that Oswald is finished talking for the time being, so he snuggles closer and wraps the arm he’s not leaning on around him, wanting to offer what comfort he can. He touches his forehead against Oswald’s.

“Thank you for telling me all of that,” he starts. “I feel very honoured that you would trust me enough to do so.” He starts trailing his fingers up and down Oswald’s side. “I think your mother would be very proud of you, and all you’ve achieved. And I think she would be proud of you for taking a chance and letting me into your life. She wouldn’t have wanted you to be alone—she would have wanted happiness for you. And I’m going to try my best to provide it, wherever I can.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Oswald breathes, and they’re so close he can feel his breath tickling his lips. Trying to stop himself from leaning in for a kiss is like trying to hold back an entire ocean at this point, so he closes his eyes and leans back a little to regain his composure. 

“Looks are unimportant, but I think you’re beautiful. From the moment we met, I couldn’t stop thinking about you—your eyes, and the way you looked at me. I was fascinated by you. Nothing about you is conventional, and you’re all the more beautiful for it.”

Oswald sighs, and when he closes his eyes, a tear runs down, over the bridge of Oswald’s nose and across his cheekbone, to drop onto the pillow. Such a strong reaction to praise; Edward makes a mental note to keep telling him what he loves about him, until it becomes a normal thing—until Oswald begins to really accept that’s how Edward sees him, that he _is_ beautiful. 

Edward freezes in his train of thoughts when _Oswald_ starts to lean in, his movements towards him so minute it’s only possible to tell because Edward is so close. Although he’s desperate for this kiss, now that it’s happening, he’s terrified the experience may not be everything Oswald hopes for—it is his first kiss after all, and his expectations may be quite high. Oswald rolls onto his side so he can lay a hand on Edward’s neck, his touch feather-light. Edward feels almost as though his skin is vibrating with how much he wants this. He stays still, lets Oswald approach, so he has control of what is such a crucial moment for him. Oswald’s eyes keep flitting between Edward’s eyes and his lips, and eventually he tilts his head so their noses don’t clash. Edward’s heart is thumping double time, his breaths quick and shallow, and they’re really about to kiss—

Of course the alarm clock goes off. The shrill sound shocks them apart, and Oswald falls onto his back and faces the ceiling, hand over his heart as he tries to recover. Edward flops onto his back too, can’t help a little giggle at the ridiculousness of it, what a cliche it is. Oswald turns to look at him and gives him a sheepish smile before chuckling too. The moment has passed. Edward sighs wistfully and tries not to feel disappointed. 

“I should get ready for work,” Oswald says, taking a deep breath and sitting up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

Edward shuffles over to Oswald on his knees and wraps his arms loosely around his shoulders. Oswald holds one of his hands and Edward gives him a tiny kiss on the cheek.

“I’ll go and get breakfast started.”

For as long as Edward has been staying at the mansion, Olga has been dismissed of her breakfast duties. She makes Edward uncomfortable, and Oswald, ever the keen observer, had noticed and quietly removed her from their meal times, having her lay out dinners when they eat at home and make herself scarce before himself and Oswald appear. Edward has his reasons for being uncomfortable, and Edward is glad for Oswald’s attentiveness, and for the fact he didn’t make a fuss or ask about it. Edward won’t be ready to talk about his childhood for quite some time. 

So it falls to them to feed themselves in the morning, but Edward really loves cooking for Oswald, and spending that quiet, peaceful time with him. 

“No, that’s all right, you can go back to sleep.”

“It’s okay, I want to.” He squeezes Oswald’s hand before grabbing his glasses, fetching his robe and heading downstairs. Edward doesn’t have to be anywhere until midday, but he enjoys the quiet domesticity of mornings with Oswald, even if he does start his day at six.

Around half an hour later, Oswald appears at the dining table in all his mayoral finery, seating himself at his usual place at the head of it. 

“Thank you, Ed,” Oswald says as they start helping themselves to bacon and eggs. 

“You’re welcome,” Edward says, taking a sip of his coffee. 

“I was thinking,” Oswald starts, clasping his hands together on the table. He looks nervous. “Tomorrow night, maybe we could go on a date? I mean, it would be here, so there wouldn’t be any going anywhere, but I could arrange something special for us. And... most importantly, it would be in a place with no interruptions.” Oswald looks at Edward’s lips then, his intention clear. Edward swallows his food awkwardly and feels his cheeks heat—which is ridiculous. He has done all this before, but he feels nervous as if it’s the first time. And it will likely only be a kiss, but that in itself makes him feel hot under the collar. He really is gone for this man.

“That sounds wonderful.” Edward manages. Oswald looks incredibly relieved, and starts to eat. 

Tarquin arrives in the limousine a short time later, and waits for Oswald just inside the front door while Edward accompanies Oswald into the room to the left of the door where they keep their coats. Oswald chooses the one he wants, and Edward helps him put it on. Sensing eyes on him, Edward glances towards the front door where Tarquin is standing, eyeing Edward with barely-concealed distaste and holding the days schedule to his chest with an air of exaggerated importance. Edward sneers and pushes the door closed, hiding himself and Oswald from view. 

Unaware of the silent exchange that just occurred, Oswald turns around and looks up at Edward, his expression full of warmth and affection—hardly recognisable from the man he first met. He reaches up and tugs on Edward’s robe, pulling him down to his height. Edward thinks Oswald is going to hug him, but instead catches him completely off-guard by giving him a quick peck on the cheek. It’s over before Edward had a chance to even process it was happening. He looks at Oswald, who’s still holding the front of the robes, keeping their faces close, and he’s smiling nervously. 

He can’t believe Oswald just kissed him.

“I’ll see you tonight?” Oswald asks, and there’s a hint of mischief there alongside the hope and trust. Trust is the most important element of course, and Edward can sense that Oswald is slowly learning to place it in him. Edward finds it incredibly humbling, and it makes him want to be worthy of the changes Oswald is making _for_ him, after living such a sad and lonely life for so long. 

“I have dinner in the city with a friend but I’ll try to get back for nine at the latest.”

“Good. I’ll wait for you by the fire. Remember not to make any plans for tomorrow night.”

Oswald hugs him then, clutching him tightly, giving him _another_ kiss as he pulls away. Shocked, Edward gives him a wide-eyed look, and Oswald shrugs cheekily before turning around and heading out to meet with Tarquin. 

Edward stares after him bewildered, though he realises he is grinning. And he can’t _stop_ grinning. This is the _real_ Oswald, cheeky and uninhibited, and though he has barely scratched the surface, he cannot wait to unearth more of the personality that he has hidden for so long. 

It makes Edward’s heart _hurt_ , the way Oswald is slowly building confidence in touching Edward, though of course it still feels as though there’s a part of Oswald that thinks he’s stealing these moments, like they’re treats he doesn’t deserve and will soon be denied. 

There’s a long road ahead of them, but Edward finds himself enraptured with the slow pace of their relationship. It means they get to savour every little intimacy they unravel together. It’s so different from what he has known, but that’s Oswald. That’s _them_. 

He can see his future with Oswald, he realises, as he trudges up the stairs to take a shower. He wants their living situation to be permanent, wants _them_ to be permanent. Edward can’t imagine himself with anyone else, and certainly doesn’t _want_ anyone else. It’s too soon to share any thoughts like that with Oswald, lest he terrify him with his certainty that he is where he is supposed to be. But it’s rather exhilarating to know these things with such conviction. It’s not something he ever dared to imagine for himself.

After leading such a nomadic lifestyle for the last ten years or so, could he have found the fixed point he’ll always return to, after completing each job? He wants this to be home, but is unsure if Oswald has the same ideas. He’s dreading the next time he’ll have to go out of town for work—how does he broach the subject of returning to Oswald? How does he let him know he wants to come home to him without scaring him? He supposes he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

  


* * *

  


Oswald is relaxing on the chaise longue, propped up by cushions, instead of in his usual spot in the armchair closer to the fire when Edward gets home. The gramophone is playing a record of classical piano pieces by Mendelssohn, which Oswald had acquired because Edward had mentioned he was one of his favourite composers. It’s not to Oswald’s usual taste, but he must admit he finds it very relaxing to listen to.

He lowers his book as Edward approaches him, and the man does look a little surprised to not see him in the armchair. 

Oswald smiles up at him, bracing himself for what he has been looking forward to all day; he hopes he can find the courage to ask.

“How was your dinner?” He asks to start. 

“Really quite uninteresting,” Edward says, eyeing the chaise and then his normal armchair by the fire. He looks a little unsure. “Though I did learn of an part I’d like to be put up for. Remind me to call my agent in the morning.”

Edward is so organised, Oswald knows he’ll have no trouble remembering that detail himself. He has probably already programmed a reminder into his phone. He watches as Edward wanders over to the gramophone and watches it spin for a moments, the crackles and jumps of the old player only adding to the ambience of the music. He smiles knowingly at Oswald as he crosses the room once more, deciding sit at the other end of the chaise. Even though Oswald’s cheeks are heating and his heart is hammering, he knows this is his moment. He leaves one leg flat on the chaise and bends the other as he lowers his foot to the floor. 

“Ed, would you—would you like to come and sit here with me?” He puts the book down on the floor and hopes it’s clear what he means. 

Edward smiles tentatively, surprise evident, and shuffles towards him. He turns around, facing away from him, slowly laying back against Oswald’s front. Edward’s head is laying on Oswald’s shoulder, just as he had imagined. He takes one of Edward’s hands in his, and with the other starts carding his fingers through Edward’s hair. He can feel Edward relax under his soothing touches, and he hums contentedly. It’s even better than he’d thought it would be, having Edward warm in his arms like this, and he smiles to himself as he discreetly breathes in the lovely scent of Edward’s hair. For a while the only sounds are the crackling of the fire and the tick tock of the grandfather clock. Oswald looks down and sees Edward’s eyes are closed and perfectly still—has he fallen asleep? Does Edward really feel _this_ relaxed with him?

But then he murmurs, “how was your day?”

“Oh you know, the usual. Crooks to swindle, traitors to murder.”

Edward snickers. “I wish you would let me help you.”

“And deprive the world of one of its finest acting talents? I think not.”

Edward’s mouth parts and he lets out a little shivering sigh. Oswald has noticed he does have a very strong reaction to praise, and he is more than happy to give it, especially since he thinks it’s justified. 

Edward lifts Oswald’s hand to his lips, turning it so his lips are grazing Oswald’s palm. Just that tiny sensation alone is electrifying, and he pauses all movement. 

“Can I...?” Edward asks, running his fingertips across the centre of his palm. Evidently he wants to kiss Oswald’s hand, and the mere thought of it alone makes him tighten his grip on Edward’s hair. 

“ _Please_ ,” he finds himself whispering breathlessly in Edward’s ear. Edward’s whole body tenses and then relaxes for some reason, but then he presses his lips against the almost unbearably sensitive skin of his palm and Oswald closes his eyes and throws his head back on top of the cushions. He moves his other hand from Edward’s hair to the top of the chaise, not wanting to hurt him with the fierceness of his grip. 

Edward doesn’t stop with his palm, and continues placing light kisses down to his wrist, soothing his thumb over it between kisses. He does it with such a gentle tenderness that Oswald’s heart feels overwhelmed. But what truly devastates Oswald is when Edward kisses each of his fingertips. He doesn’t go as far as putting them in his mouth, just presses sweet kisses against the pad of each finger. His desire for Edward is burning out of control, it’s as though each of his fingers is hardwired to send these dizzying sensations straight to his groin. Oswald needs to do _something_ to reciprocate, to communicate how good Edward is making him feel. He leans forward again to kiss Edward’s cheek, but in doing so he realises two things: one that he’s hard, and two that Edward will _definitely_ be able to feel it. He can’t stop the moan at the friction the shift of position creates as he leans his forehead on Edward’s shoulder, and it startles him. 

He clutches Edward’s upper arms desperately to anchor himself, wrenching his hand away from Edward’s mouth. He’s not ready for this, for Edward to know him like this. He breathes deeply, trying to get a hold of himself and avoid descending into a total state of panic.

Edward turns to look at him, clearly sensing Oswald’s discomfort, and sits up, moving to the other end of the chaise so they’re not touching at all. Oswald feels completely out of his depth, yet somehow Edward’s distance from him is not helping.

“I don’t want you to completely—I need—would you—”

Edward quickly gets up and comes to kneel on the floor by his side. Oswald swings his legs round to bracket either side of him, putting his arms around his shoulders and leaning his forehead on Edward’s. 

“I’m sorry,” Edward says quietly. “I went too far.”

Oswald can’t bear to see the look of shame on Edward’s face. 

“No, what you did was fine. It was what happened—how I reacted after—I can’t do that yet. I’m sorry.” He usually prides himself on his eloquence, yet right now he can barely string a coherent sentence together.

“Don’t be sorry. I’m just glad I didn’t push you too far. That’s the last thing I want.” He pulls Oswald into his arms then, and Oswald clings to him tightly. He is so grateful for Edward’s understanding. 

“Thank you,” Oswald murmurs once they’re face to face. He places a hand on the side of Edward’s neck, his favourite place to rest it. He isn’t sure how to say what he wants to, but he has to try—he wants Edward to know exactly what he is feeling. He deserves to know. “I want you, Ed. God, I _really_ want you. And I think that is part of it, that my body is ahead of my brain, and it just isn’t ready to process the way my body is reacting to you. And when I felt _that_ , it was just too much, and I couldn’t...”

Edward smiles and holds Oswald’s other hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me. If you’re not ready, you’re not ready.”

“I just wanted you to know.” Oswald takes a deep breath. “Because some day I want to be fully intimate with you.” 

Edward’s eyebrows shoot up, looking as though he can’t believe what he just heard. 

“I want to have sex,” Oswald adds.

Edward half-coughs, half-chuckles, then takes a moment to clear his throat and compose himself. “Thank you for the clarification.”

Oswald smiles, amused. “I mean it.”

“I know you do. And as I said before, I will wait for as long as it takes. But you should know that you can always change your mind. If you decide you don’t want to be intimate at all, it won’t affect my feelings for you. I’m not going anywhere. At least not while you want me around.” Edward purses his lips after his little speech, and shifts slightly on his feet, as though nervous about how what he has said will be received.

Oswald hadn’t in all honesty been sure what Edward’s plans were, or how long he meant to stay with him. But to hear Edward say he wants to be with Oswald indefinitely, it eases his mind considerably. He grazes his thumb over the soft skin just beneath his jaw affectionately. 

“I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear you say that.”

Edward smiles, looking relieved. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.” 

As he looks down at Edward he realises the full extent of his feelings for Ed; and for the first time, he doesn’t try to smother his emotions. Oswald isn’t infatuated with Edward, he is in love with him. He has known it for a while, but this is the first time he hasn’t hidden from the knowledge, fearing how accepting it might end up hurting him. It’s terrifying being this honest with himself, and silently handing Edward the power to cause him pain. The words aren’t yet ready to leave his heart and form in his mouth, but he hopes Edward can see it in the way Oswald is looking at him. His quiet smile says that he does.

After a few moments, Edward says, “shall we go to bed?”

“I might take a bath first, but yes, that sounds like a good idea.” Oswald leans in to plant a quick kiss on Edward’s cheek, before Edward helps him to his feet. His limbs are incredibly stiff and a bath sounds heavenly. 

Edward offers Oswald his hand and slowly, they head upstairs together. 

  


* * *

  


Oswald is determined to go ahead with their date the following night. He had asked Tarquin to clear his schedule from mid afternoon onwards, giving him plenty of time to prepare before Edward comes home at eight. Oswald is arranging a romantic dinner for them at the mansion, because there’s no way he can do it in public. He’s not ready for their—whatever they have—to become public knowledge. He had spent a long time crafting his business-only reputation, and being seen with Edward Nygma would change _everything_ , not to mention how it would undermine his standing in the darker side of Gotham, if he were perceived to have gone soft. When the time is right, they’ll make a plan of action together, one where they can control the narrative. 

He is feeling good about their date. Excited, giddy. Oswald can’t wait to kiss Edward properly. He knows that despite his complete lack of practice, kissing Edward is going to be a sensational experience. The thought of it makes his stomach flip-flop, and he realises he is smiling, his fingers playing at his lips. He quickly lowers his hand and banishes the smile from his face before anyone sees, going back to the task at hand. 

He’s viewing demolition proposals for some of the dockside warehouses early on Friday morning when Tarquin enters his office, looking grim. At least it’s a better look on him than the smarmy grins he usually wears. It’s a thought he’ll come to regret.

“Mayor Cobblepot, may I speak with you for a moment?”

“Yes, Tarquin, what is it?”

He approaches the desk, a folded newspaper in his hands. “I hate to be the one to show this to you, but I’m afraid you’ll need to see it.”

Tarquin places the newspaper over the top of the proposals, and Oswald’s heart stops when he sees the photo. In it, he and Edward are sitting opposite each other in a restaurant, smiling at one another, holding hands across the table. It looks as though it might have been taken on a cell phone from an adjacent table. How could he not have noticed? Though he supposes phones these days have excellent zoom, so it could have been taken from further away. He wonders how it was possible—whenever dines at restaurants he always makes sure they have no cellphone policy. An inside job maybe, someone with connections, able to bend the rules. 

After this photograph, there can be no room for denying the nature of their relationship. The only way to read the photo is as lovers. The photo is the least offensive part of the front page, however. The headline reads _Mayor’s Sex Scandal_.

The article details how under his mayoral facade, Oswald is hiding a large variety of darker tastes and desires—that he’s driven by lust, and has secretly bedded a number of men throughout his tenure, men that were paid off to keep quiet about it. The piece is full of lies and claims from Edward himself about how Oswald preferred him as a “kept man”, never leaving the mansion and always being at his beck and call, catering to his every whim.

Was that really how Edward saw things? The way the article is written it sounds as though  
Oswald kept him as his prisoner. How could Edward say any of this? Where has any of this come from? He’d thought that Edward had been enjoying taking it easy in the privacy of the mansion. These comments are completely at odds with the perfect three weeks they’ve been living together. 

He can only come to one conclusion, he realizes, his stomach roiling. Edward played him, used him, to climb higher up the ladder of fame, to boost his career. And it was spectacularly done. He got Oswald to let down all his defences, tell him things about his life and work he’d never told anyone. He even managed to get Oswald to fall in love with him. 

Edward doesn’t care for him at all. He never did.

He thinks about just the night before when Edward had knelt at Oswald’s feet, and how he had finally given into the feelings that had been building ever since he’d first seen him. How Oswald had never been so happy in his life, made all the more euphoric by contrast with the depths of depression that had been the norm in his life before Edward. 

None of it meant anything to him. 

“I have to go home,” Oswald mutters, standing up, folding the paper shakily and putting it in his briefcase. “I trust you can handle the damage control in the meantime. The official stance will be that we were just friends.”

“Of course, sir. I’m…sorry.”

Oswald nods, numbly, not looking at him. He glances out the window and sees there is already a huge number of journalists and photographers assembled on the steps of City Hall. And he’s going to have to fight his way through them. 

“Have the car brought around. Will you cover me, and tell them the usual?”

Tarquin nods and leaves to call for the car. 

Oswald stares at the table, willing his storm inside him to stay locked away until he gets back to the mansion. He distantly realizes he’s trembling. It feels like seconds later when Tarquin returns saying the car is ready. He holds an umbrella in his hand—Oswald hadn’t even noticed it was raining. He takes a deep breath and nods his readiness.

Tarquin leads him down the steps, holding the umbrella over him, and the media immediately start clamoring for Oswald’s attention. He focuses on Tarquin’s back, trying not to hear their questions, but a few of them slip through.

“Mayor Cobblepot, have younger men always been your preference?”

“Why have you kept your sexuality a secret from the public?”

“Is it true you paid Mr. Nygma to be your lover?”

The last question is the most difficult, his expressionless mask almost falls. The mere idea of Edward not giving his time of his own free will makes him want to be violently sick. 

They never even _kissed_.

“Mayor Cobblepot has no comments to make at present. A statement will be issued in due course.” Tarquin says forcefully, before opening the door for Oswald. He smiles at him encouragingly once he’s sat inside, and closes the door. Photographers immediately descend on the windows and he flinches away from them. 

As soon as he gets back to the mansion he heads straight for the bathroom, locking himself inside, opening the toilet lid, just in case. He cries so hard he gags a couple of times, but mercifully he doesn’t vomit. He leans back against the wall, completely drained, tears still streaming from his eyes. 

He’d _loved_ Edward. And he never should have let it get that far. He should never have written to him, never should have invited him into his life. This is why feelings are not to be trusted, why he never lets anyone in—because everything _always_ ends in pain. There are no happy endings. This is the most brutal of reminders. 

It had been better before, when he felt nothing at all.

He should have _known_. Edward is an actor after all. Deceiving people is what he does for a living. Oswald never even doubted him for a moment, even when he questioned someone of Edward’s intelligence and beauty wanting to spend time with him, he believed deep down that Edward wanted to be there. He dismissed his uncertainty as paranoia, telling himself that he needed to try living and trusting. It was what his mother would have wanted.

Oswald had wanted so badly not to be alone anymore.

Eventually, he dries his face with a towel and goes to find Olga. He asks her if Edward has been back to pick up his things, figuring that, his goal achieved, Edward would have just taken off. Surprisingly, she says he hasn’t. So he tells her to go and pack up Edward’s belongings and leave them in the hallway by the door. This done, he asks her to bring him whiskey and then gives her the rest of the day off. He goes to sit by the fire, and wait for the inevitable confrontation. 

Not half an hour has passed when the door opens and a panicked sounding voice calls out Oswald’s name. 

“I was doing my first interview of the day and they were asking me these questions I didn’t understand,” Edward says, voice laced with worry; he really is doing a remarkable job. He seems to be methodically searching the rooms as he talks. “And I don’t think they believed me, but they showed me the paper anyway. I called City Hall and they said you’d gone home. Of course I cancelled everything else today…” He trails off, and he imagines Edward has noticed the small pile of his bags by the door. “Oswald?” His voice is strained, barely above a whisper.

At last, he enters the living room, crossing the space quickly and kneeling at Oswald’s feet. Oswald can’t look at him—if he does, he’ll crumble again. He stares resolutely at his glass.

“Oswald…you don’t believe it, do you?”

It’s a pointless question, and Oswald doesn’t know why Edward is bothering to continue with this farce now that he’s gotten what he wanted all along. 

“I didn’t say any of those things! I never even did an interview with that paper, I never spoke to anyone about our relationship—”

Something inside Oswald breaks, and cold fury washes over him, filling all the deep hollows of agonizing sadness inside him. “Our _relationship_? None of it was real. Surely you can’t expect me to believe that you actually _wanted_ to be here, now?”

“Are you really going to believe them over me? Look at me, _please_. You know me, like no one else does. Can’t you see that I didn’t do it?”

Oswald slowly looks up from his glass, and at the sight of those eyes looking pleadingly up at him, his bottom lip trembles, and his eyes fill with more tears. 

“I think you know I didn’t do it. You know it in your gut. You’re just persuading yourself that I did because pushing me away is easier than facing everything out there.” Edward gently pushes Oswald’s legs apart so he can get closer. He takes Oswald’s glass out of his hand, and places it on the table before turning his full attention back to Oswald. 

Oswald looks at Edward. _Really_ looks. He can’t see the betrayal he thought he would see in there. He sees only honesty, and _love_.

But everything is ruined now. They have no control over the media and their speculation. They no longer get to define how they are seen; as far as they are concerned, Oswald is a lecherous man who only invites young men to his bed. That kind of character defamation is hard to recover from. If they try to continue with their relationship, the media will eat them alive. They’ll follow them both, wherever they go. Oswald’s approval ratings are probably already falling, along with his reputation in the underworld. 

No, the best thing he can do now is sever all ties with Edward Nygma, deny everything and hope the disgrace will pass. If not, he’ll have to resign, and concentrate on the underworld side of his life instead. Oswald doesn’t have the strength to go on as before with Edward. It was terrifying opening up to him in private, and he most certainly can’t share his relationship with Edward with the world. He just can’t. 

Whatever happens now, it will be easier to continue without Edward, and all the implications their association entails. 

Oswald knows Edward can see the moment he decides, because his face creases in pain. 

“You know, but you’re going to make me leave anyway.” 

They stare at each other in a poignant silence, in which the only sound is the pouring rain outside.

“I’ve never felt like this about anyone,” Edward whispers, gazing at Oswald imploringly, his breaths shaky.

Oswald lifts his hands, and strokes Edward’s cheeks with his thumbs. _You’re the only one_ , his touch says. _But I have to let you go._

He looks at Edward’s lips, parted slightly as he watches Oswald, the glimmer of hope in his eyes almost burnt out.

Oswald leans forward, tilts his head slightly and presses his lips against Edward’s cheek. It’s not a quick kiss like the few previous ones; Oswald allows this one to linger like Edward’s first one had. He closes his eyes as emotion overwhelms him, and two more tears fall down his cheeks. Edward gives a small, pained gasp before as he leans into the touch and closes his eyes. His fingers bunch desperately in Oswald’s jacket.

Edward, who had maintained a surprising level of composure up until that point, comes completely undone by the kiss. It’s clearly dawning on Edward now that this was a goodbye kiss, that this is really the end. He starts to cry before Oswald has even ended the kiss, eventually having to wrench himself away, leaning an arm on Oswald’s leg to hold himself up. His other hand grips his hair so tight it looks painful. 

Oswald can’t bear to see him breaking like this. If there had been any doubt about his telling the truth, it was just snuffed out, because the pain he can see Edward experiencing is terrifyingly raw and unbridled. His instinct is to comfort him, but how can he, when he is the cause?

This will be better for them both in the long run. 

“How could you…” Edward starts, his voice rough. “How could you kiss me now?”

How could he not? It wasn’t even the proper kiss that Oswald wanted so badly. He will never get that now, his first real kiss.

“I’m sorry. It was selfish.”

Edward begins to lean away from him, and he can almost physically see Edward closing himself off, building his own walls, and when he looks again at Oswald, there is anger in his eyes. 

Edward, who’s usually so thoughtful, with his bright light and pure joy, is becoming malignant. Oswald can read the forming distrust and resentment in his face. He’s changing before Oswald’s very eyes.

Oswald did that. He destroys everything he touches. He _loathes_ himself. 

Edward stands up, wipes his eyes and looks down at Oswald.

“I gave you everything I had to give. You may not have realized it, but I placed my trust in you too. I know you have your darkness, and that things are more difficult for you. I never expected anything from you, except your companionship, and maybe one day, your love. It was a privilege to be there for you, to support you when you needed me. I _wanted_ to do everything I could for you, because I care about you. But I don’t deserve this.”

Edward is wielding the power now, in a way he never did before. He’s almost like a wild animal ready to lash out.

“You’re right. You don’t.”

Oswald’s submissive agreement only seems to anger Edward more. 

“You won’t get a second chance with me, Oswald. You have failed me. And there is no coming back from that.”

Oswald nods his understanding, trying with all his might to hold back his tears, lest Edward become more incensed. Edward stands there for a few more moments, as though waiting for something—one last chance for Oswald to change his mind. 

“Please don’t make me go.” It’s so quiet, Oswald’s not even sure he heard it. Perhaps he imagined it.

Nonetheless, he stares resolutely and unresponsively into the flames. Seconds later, he hears Edward’s footfalls as he walks away. Each click of the heels of his shoes feels like a gunshot wound; with each step Edward is closer to leaving him forever. In the corner of his eye, Oswald sees him pause in the archway. 

“I loved you, Oswald. Remember that.”

It’s the first time either of them has said the word aloud.

It’s also the first time anyone has told him they loved him since his mother died.

Then he’s picking up his bags, the door is clicking shut, the trunk of the car is slammed closed, the car crunches over the gravel. In a couple of quick, blurry minutes, Edward is gone.

  


* * *

  


When the car pulls up outside Edward’s apartment building, he is shocked at the amount of media present, milling about in the street and on the steps. They almost look like a riotous mob, and Edward doesn’t really have the energy to face this, especially when it will involve getting all of his luggage from the trunk—the message obvious. _The mayor kicked me out, no longer wants me, his whore._ The pictures will be a feast for them. They’re already crowding the blacked out window and taking photos. Edward inhales shakily, staring fixedly at the seat in front of him, trying to quell his building panic. 

But then he has a sudden thought.

“Excuse me, Seb? Would you mind dropping me at my friends’ place? It’s just a couple of blocks—” 

“I’m sorry,” comes the voice from the front. “Mr. Cobblepot gave me strict instructions to take you to your apartment only.”

Of _course_. The order was probably given when he was in a rage, thinking Edward had betrayed him. He could probably call Oswald now, and get him to approve Edward’s request, but he can’t easily ask him for anything anymore. His pride prevents it. Less than an hour after he had left, already asking for help.

No, he is just going to have to face it. The world’s most public walk of shame.

“Is it alright if I just have a couple of minutes?” 

Seb’s reply is surprisingly sympathetic. “Of course sir. I don’t have to be anywhere else today.”

“Thank you,” Edward says, trying to get his breathing under control. He looks again at the clamouring of hands, faces, camera flashes. This, he supposes, is something he is going to have to get used to. He had wanted to be a star—but not like this.

This is a cruel introduction to the cult of celebrity. His heart is broken, and he has to go through that in front of everyone who watches the news or picks up a newspaper. _Everyone_ is going to see his pain. 

_Deep breaths_. He fumbles in his shoulder bag for his keys. Having them to hand to enable him to get into the building quicker will be ideal. At least it’s not raining anymore, though Edward wonders why he cares about such an insignificant detail.

He has to force the door open and awkwardly slither around the edge of the car to get to the trunk as they hurl rapid-fire questions at him.

“Did the mayor take advantage of you in any way?”

“Did Mayor Cobblepot try to pay you off to keep you quiet?”

Trying to keep his face expressionless as he retrieves his bags from the trunk is extremely difficult. Had they asked Oswald these kinds of questions? 

If they’re painting Edward as the victim...then it must be infinitely worse for Oswald. It turns his stomach to think of some of the things they might have accused him of.

He almost wants to tell them that he was the one who pursued Oswald, and wanted to be with him because he felt something, something which became love. Edward is angry with Oswald right now, but he doesn’t want him to suffer the hurtful slander of a sex scandal when he did nothing wrong during their short relationship. He doesn’t deserve that. 

As soon as he closes the trunk, the car pulls away, wasting no time now the job is done. He looks to the door of the apartment building then, and focuses on it, determinedly fighting his way through the microphones, dictaphones and cameras that are being unceremoniously thrust in his face. He’s tuning them out and making good progress until he gets to about halfway up the steps, and someone from the back of the crowd yells, “Mr. Nygma, are you in love with Mayor Cobblepot?”

Edward falters mid-step, and he is sure the media have probably caught his split-second of hesitation on film, for all the world to see. He forces himself to carry on, shakily attempting to fit the key in the lock. Eventually he manages to open the door, mildly horrified when the reporters don’t back off despite the door closing in their faces. They continue to shout on the other side of it, and he backs away hastily, breathing deeply. Keen to put as much distance between the mob and himself, he starts trudging up the stairs to his third floor apartment. 

After letting himself inside, he drops his bags by the door and numbly walks into the living room. He listlessly flops down onto the sofa, feeling like a stranger in his own apartment. He looks around at his things without really seeing them, unsure what to do with himself. But then his eyes land on the vase on the dining room table, where Edward had put the flowers that Oswald had had delivered to his dressing room. It’s empty now of course, he’d had a friend check on his apartment while he was in California. But it doesn’t stop him getting up and going over to it. 

The note Oswald had written to go with the flowers is still sitting by the vase, and then it dawns on him, as chills of horror creep up his spine. What if his friend read the card, put two and two together and decided to make a quick buck selling the story to the press? What if all of this is _his_ fault? Is he the one to blame for the end of the best thing that’s ever happened to him?

Now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t heard from him since. That can’t be a coincidence. 

But he has known Jonathan since college, and he trusted him enough to always give him his spare key when he goes away. Jonathan has never betrayed his trust. Perhaps the temptation proved too much to bear. Edward knows he has been struggling to pay the bills this past year.

But then again, where had the photograph come from? Is Jonathan really capable of stalking him and taking a photo to back up his story? How would he have found out when he and Oswald were going out for dinner? Why wait until now?

It must have been him. No one else knew. And he didn’t even tell Jonathan directly. 

How could he be so stupid, so careless? 

Edward holds the note in shaking hands, utterly overwhelmed by guilt and shame. It’s all his fault that Oswald is being painted as some sort of sexual deviant, having to face questions about his personal life for the first time, when Edward knows how difficult it was for Oswald to open up to just him, let alone the hungry eyes of the entire city and potentially the country. 

What’s done is done. He can’t go back now, no matter how much he might want to. Apologising won’t make a damn bit of difference. Oswald won’t take him back, and he will probably never trust anyone again. 

Neither will Edward.

Just last night they had made a real breakthrough, and Edward had thought they were really solidifying their relationship. Edward had told him he wasn’t going anywhere for as long as he was wanted, and Oswald had seemed to welcome that knowledge. Edward was starting to put down some roots, an idea he’d always thought he would find repellent. It turned out to be the best feeling in the world, building a future with someone he loved. 

He truly loves Oswald. And it’s going to take a long time for that to fade away. If it ever does. 

Edward doesn’t ever want to feel like this again, and decides that from now on he won't let anyone get close to him emotionally. He knows for certain he won’t ever fall in love again—this was it, his one chance at love, and now it’s over.

Edward can feel another emotional outburst welling up inside him, desperate for an outlet. He’s either going to smash something or cry, so awful is the pain in his heart. He paces back and forth, vibrating with pent up feelings, until eventually, he fishes his cellphone out of his pocket. Ignoring the hundreds of missed calls, he calls his agent, who seems relieved to hear from him. Edward supposes as his representative she has been inundated with calls and messages since the story broke. 

He briefly assures her that he’s alright and isn’t about to do anything stupid, before cutting to the point—does she have any auditions for him? Any scripts to read? 

Turns out she’s been inundated by those too, and says he is going to have to read through his options carefully to be able to discern the genuine opportunities from people just trying to ride the coattails of his soaring fame. 

He is going to have to think about a lot of things differently now, and that makes him feel as though his life is no longer his own. Do all famous actors feel like this? He'd wanted fame and fortune, but he's already feeling the weight of the cost that comes with it. 

When the call is over and they have arranged for her to come by his apartment in the morning, he lays down on the sofa, pulling the throw over himself and propping a cushion underneath his head. He stares across the room, unfocused, despondent.

Edward is going to have to embrace the chaos his life is becoming. He cannot undo what has been done, there is no point in wishing things were different.

He will just have to immerse himself in his work, take advantage of all the opportunities that will be coming his way now. Make the best of a bad situation. 

And never think about Oswald ever again.


End file.
